


Return to Blackshear Butte

by barbarosabee



Series: Wander the Fires [3]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Horror Elements, Hurt Arthur Morgan, Hurt/Comfort, Supernatural Elements, Whump, wound care
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-01-25 18:45:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18580399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barbarosabee/pseuds/barbarosabee
Summary: Tired of being chased by a strange creature, Arthur finally decides to do something about it. With Charles' help, they return to where Arthur first saw it—out on the dry steppes of Blackshear Butte. They know it won't be easy, have planned for the worst.Can never plan for everything, though, and they end up having to deal with a lot more than they anticipated.





	1. Chapter 1

Arthur glared at the little girl hiding between the trees. Knew she had to be there, had seen her plenty enough by now. Had screamed at her, too, to stop playing games, he knew what she really were.

She just stared. Sometimes her face was covered by her auburn hair. Sometimes a gold-yellow eye stared back. Sometimes there was nothing but the yawning black.

Arthur lost track of how many times the sun came and went. Had to keep moving, keep the _thing_ off his back. It couldn’t get him if he never slept, if he always kept an eye on it. Couldn’t dream if he never slept.

Arthur blinked and the girl disappeared. His heart pounded in his ears, couldn’t remember a time it hadn’t been pounding and leaving him near breathless. He didn’t notice the rain pick up around him, how it ate at his fire. Calliope hovered near, unsure. Her prodding hadn’t gotten much of a reaction.

A branch snapped. Arthur swung his rifle around and stumbled to his feet, knocked over his box of express rounds. Heart beat faster. Breath struggled past it as panic squeezed his lungs.

Calliope nosed at his shoulder. Arthur lowered the gun with a wobbly sigh. Pat Calliope once on the neck and went back to sitting in front of his fire, rifle over his lap.

He hadn’t eaten or slept in days. Had no idea how long, all his energy spent tracking the girl and fearing the creature would find him. He’d move camp at dawn and set down again at dusk without paying attention to where he was going. Remembered to toss some food at Calliope. She kept nosing and nudging at him but he ignored her, eyes stuck on the far shadows between trees. Ignored the cold and his hunger and the sting he always got in his eyes when he slept too little.

Arthur settled in for another night of watching the woods and trying to convince himself he wasn’t seeing things from the corner of his eye.

 

\- 0 - 0 - 0 -

 

Charles didn’t wait for Dutch to ask him to track Arthur down. Just saddled up Taima before dawn and headed north. Told Sean on watch where he was going, boy might’ve been too drunk to remember. Charles could disappear, when he wanted, without worrying the whole camp half to death. Useful as he was, he’d only been with them less than a year, didn’t expect anyone to cry over him if something happened.

It would be tricky, following a trail this old. Charles packed for the worst. Part of him hoped Arthur had just decided to take time fishing somewhere. A bigger part of him knew that wouldn’t be the case. Charles had felt it, too, the something _off_ , the something not right Arthur admitted to the day before The Witch’s execution. A sharp undercurrent to the shortening days and colder nights. A knife running up his spine when his back was turned to dark woods.

Charles hadn’t been sleeping well since their return from the Davies mess. Was as much from dreams of the wendigo as it was nightmares of the women they freed. Charles knew which monster he would prefer to face again.

He tried not to think of either and instead focus on what trail he could spot.

The day was whittled down to dusk by a driving wind. Charles had to tie his hair back, tuck it into his shirt just to be able to see straight. Dark clouds persisted but refused to break, menaced Charles as he rode along the river and through the hills and past Strawberry.

He kept riding through the night, sure he had found Arthur’s trail and not wanting to risk losing it once the downpour started. Smelled like it was going to rain any minute. Charles would push through it, didn’t want to stop unless he absolutely had to. His concern had only grown when he asked around town after Arthur, who’d last been seen heading for the van Tinterin ranch. Charles found the property empty of humans or animals and the concern evolved into some kind of dread.

Full dark when the sky finally split open. Charles was drenched and cold in a minute but something urged him to keep going. He followed the signs up the meandering mountain trails, scanned the rocks for any sign of a fire or a tent or _anything_.

Charles lit his lamp, held it on one hand as he slowed Taima and leaned over her sides. Rocks made for poor tracks, and the stretch of a week and the heavy rain had Charles doubting himself.

He pulled Taima to a stop and strained to take in his surroundings over the rain and the wind. Nowhere in the immediate area that he could see would make for a good camp, nothing big enough for a horse to stand comfortably. Everything too open and exposed, not much to fuel a fire. Charles urged Taima up the mountain, slow as he’d ever gone, the light from the lamp the only thing keeping them from plunging off the trail. Eventually it got too steep and too wet and Charles dismounted to lead Taima forward.

At the crest of the trail he paused, scanned the ground. The trail curved back towards a more wooded area. Charles thought he caught a glimpse of a fire, but through the curtain of rain and the shadow of crowded trees, it could’ve been anything. He mounted Taima, confident she would have a safe grip as the trail turned back into dirt and levelled out.

They rounded a large boulder and were met by a loud whinny. Taima wickered back to the familiar horse. Charles kicked her into a trot and in a minute they were within the circle of light from Arthur’s tiny campfire.

Arthur didn’t look up as Charles approached. Didn’t look over to where Calliope was nosing at Taima. The mustang had mud up to her knees, twigs and clumps of dirt snarled into the feathering at her hooves. Fair bit of dirt all along her back, like she hadn’t been brushed in the entire time Arthur’d been gone.

Charles dismounted, came at Arthur from the side so the other man could easily see his approach.

“Arthur?”

Arthur stared into the fire. Rifle across his lap, held loose. An overturned box of ammunition by his knee, rounds spilled everywhere.

“Arthur, it’s Charles.”

Nothing. Charles couldn’t see his eyes, shaded by the brim of his hat, could only see his overgrown beard, the dirt beneath his fingernails, the white puffs of air as he breathed through his nose.

Charles crouched in front of Arthur. “Arthur, are you alright?”

Could finally see Arthur’s eyes were closed. Charles slowly reached for the rifle, got both hands around it before gently pulling it towards him. Got no reaction until the weight of the gun left Arthur’s lap all the way.

Arthur lurched away from Charles, scrambled backwards until he hit a tree. Frantically grabbed for the guns at his hips. Charles reached him in two easy strides, caught up Arthur’s wrists.

“Easy! Arthur, it’s just Charles.”

Wide bloodshot eyes met his, looked over his shoulder, back to Charles again.

“Charles?”

“Yeah, it’s me. When was the last time you slept?”

“Haven’t. Don’t think.” Arthur swallowed, throat clicked. “You’re wet.”

“So are you. Raining pretty hard.”

Arthur looked to the sky. Flinched when water got in his eyes. “Oh.”

Charles looked around for Arthur’s things, found the saddle and bags in a heap. Set up the tent quickly and herded Arthur onto the bedroll. Shoved a canteen and an apple at him.

“You need to sleep.”

“Can’t. It might come back.”

“What might come back?”

Arthur swallowed the last of the apple. “Saw it again, as I was leaving.”

“The wendigo?”

Arthur nodded, eyes focused outside the tent. Nothing but the dark and the rain and the horses breathing as they slept.

“When did you last see it?” Charles nudged a stack of crackers into Arthur’s hand; he took it, but his focus remained entirely outside the tent.

“Dunno. Right after I left Bernie’s place.”

“Arthur. . . that was a week ago. Has it really been a week since you slept?”

Arthur swallowed a cracker, paused with the next one halfway to his mouth. Charles followed the line of his gaze outside the tent but saw nothing.

“There’s nothing there.”

Arthur looked back at Charles, confusion plain on his face.

“You don’t see her?”

“Who? No, Arthur, there’s no one there. Just us and the horses.”

“Huh.”

Arthur wanted to believe Charles, he really did, but the girl was _right there_ on the other side of the sputtering fire. The longer he stared the more she shimmered, shifted, form losing its outlines and suggesting something feline and slinking low to the ground. Arthur squeezed his eyes shut.

Opened them and saw nothing but the fire behind Charles, who’d leaned over to block Arthur’s view of the forest.

“Arthur, you _need_ to sleep. I’ll keep watch.”

“But—”

“Nothing’s there, Arthur. I’ll keep watch and nothing will get near you, I promise.”

Arthur put up no resistance as Charles pressed him onto the bedroll. He stared at Charles’ back in the mouth of the tent, shotgun on his lap. Tried to thank Charles but Arthur’s stinging eyes refused to stay open any longer and he gave in to sleep.

 

\- 0 - 0 - 0 -

 

“You’re a _mess_.”

“Thank you, Charles, I hadn’t noticed.”

“Why didn’t you just come back to camp?”

Arthur shrugged from his place on the ground, running a damp bandana over Calliope’s legs to loosen the mess from her feathering. Calliope was getting impatient as Arthur worked on the last leg—he’d been fussing over her since he woke around noon. Despite Charles’ insistence he needed more sleep than that, Arthur had set to work caring for Calliope. Had run out of peppermints and was trying her patience at this point, though.

Charles held out an oatcake to Calliope. Taima enjoyed some freshly sprouted grass a few yards away.

“Thought that weren’t a good idea.”

“I could’ve helped.”

Arthur sighed. Brushed out the feathering. Calliope pulled her hoof away, stamped it and shifted from side to side. Arthur used the girth strap on the saddle to pull himself to his feet with a grunt.

“I. . . .I was scared, alright? Weren’t in my right mind when I saw it had followed me so far.”

“You wanted to find it on your own terms, hm?”

Arthur shrugged. “Sure, something like that.” Ran his hands through Calliope’s glistening mane, did up the tiny braid at the end of it near her shoulders. She knocked her head against his satchel with an impatient huff. “Sorry, girl, all out.”

She turned back to Charles, who was ready with another oatcake. Charles rubbed her nose as she chewed.

“We should head back to camp. People are worried.”

“No.”

“Arthur—”

“We have to go after it. Right now.”

“You’ve been gone a week, at least stop in and—”

“It has to be _right now_ , Charles. I can. . . ,” Arthur sighed, rubbed a hand down his face, scratched the bare patch on his chin. “I just got a feeling, okay? Like there ain’t much time left to do something. ‘Fore something real bad happens.” Shoved the brush back into his saddlebag and swung onto Calliope’s back before Charles could answer.

Charles remained where he was, hand on Calliope’s head. He and Arthur traded an intense look before Charles sighed.

“Alright. But you _are_ going to sleep, or I’ll knock you out myself.”

 

\- 0 - 0 - 0 -

 

Charles watched Arthur from the corner of his eye. Hadn’t wanted to wake him, would stay up all night just to let Arthur sleep. But sleep had not come easy, and Arthur had woken several times, panicked and sweaty and eyes darting everywhere until they found Charles. Charles managed to get him settled each time with a swig of whiskey and a pat on the knee.

It was going to be a long ride to Mill Plains. Charles insisted they stop in Strawberry for supplies, threatened to hogtie Arthur and take him back to camp if he didn’t listen.

Charles slipped into the post office while Arthur went into the general store. Sent a brief letter to Valentine, hoped people at camp would have the sense not to try coming after them. Assured he and Arthur would be back within a week, hopefully less. Said Arthur had a lead on something near Blackshear and they were going to check it out. The excuse would just have to hold.

Charles was back outside the general store before Arthur finished.

“You good?”

“Sure.” Arthur stopped long enough to give Calliope a peppermint, and then they were on their way.

Now Arthur was hunched in his saddle, eyes bloodshot, bags so deep beneath them it looked like he’d taken a few punches to the face. Kept pinching his eyes, shaking his head to try to stay awake. They’d shared a pot of coffee before breaking down camp but it didn’t seem to be doing much. Charles had suggested, more than once, stopping to rest. Arthur insisted they push on, would take near two days to get to Mill Plains from how far north they were.

They rode in silence until the sun began to set. The landscape started to change, trees farther apart, grass bleached and coarse, mountains crumbling to outcrops and scattered boulders. Arthur shot two ducks as they watered the horses at a small pool surrounded by tall reeds. The day’s warmth clung to the dry earth.

They stopped for the night when Arthur abruptly slid from Calliope and landed on his feet with a loud thump, stumbled a few steps before dropping to the ground with a puff of dirt. He’d started to doze by the time Charles got the fire going.

Arthur continued not talking as he sat by the fire, legs stretched in front of him, a growing pile of feathers by his knee from the ducks. Charles took the time to unsaddle the horses, though Calliope wouldn’t let him anywhere near her with a brush. Set out hay and apples for them and joined Arthur at the fire.

Both birds crisped and crackled over the fire. Arthur hid a yawn behind his fist.

“I’ll take first watch.”

“Charles—”

“You got us our dinner, it’s only fair.”

“. . . .fine, I suppose.”

They ate in silence. Arthur stifled his yawns around great bites of food. Calliope wandered over and tried to steal his hat, but he just shoved it under his jacket and she gave up with a mighty wuff. NIbbled on his hair instead and the barest hint of a smile cracked his stony facade.

Arthur threw the remains of his duck into the fire and cleared his throat. “How’s the leg?”

Charles flexed said leg with a small wince. “Better than it was. I’ll be fine.”

“Sure, just be careful.”

“I could say the same to you.” Charles caught his eye. Arthur shrugged, but the smile had spread.

“Think I’ll turn in. You wake me up when it’s my turn, y’hear?”

“Of course.”

Arthur stretched out on his bedroll, back to the fire. Calliope nosed around his face; one hand came up to pet along her blaze, and then Arthur sent her off to stand with Taima. Charles watched the horses settle before turning his attention to the wilderness around them. They had set up not too far from the pond and Charles could hear animals rustling up to it. Nothing too big, sounded mostly like the usual small nighttime critters.

A prickle of unease nicked the base of Charles’ neck as he stared into the dark. Three sides of their camp were exposed, only the large rock at his back to protect them. Charles suddenly regretted choosing this spot, but he had been too focused on just getting Arthur some goddamn rest.

Charles scanned the area as best he could, not enough light from the moon or the fire to see much. Slowed his breathing and strained to make out any unusual sounds.

Unease settled into dread when Charles realized there _were_ no sounds. No crickets, nothing in the reeds at the pool, no tiny paws skittering into burrows. The world had come to a stop.

 _Something’s watching us_.

Charles got a firmer grip on his shotgun and stood, moved closer to Arthur and the solid rock wall. Leaned against it and glared into the night.

  
  


The tree loomed, a dark silhouette against a tar-black sky. Orange-yellow eyes hovering in the middle of it, staring unblinking at him. The eyes dropped to the ground and the scant light from the crescent moon gleamed off its inky pelt. Hot breath whitened from its open mouth. Blood stuck to its muzzle, its teeth.

One step, two, three, four and the panther morphed into the wendigo. Pale and tall and ungainly and Arthur couldn’t look anywhere but the gaping voids in its face. Some part of Arthur knew he was dreaming, but it wasn’t a big enough part to quell any of the panic that sent him sprinting across the steppe.

The wendigo caught up in an instant, needle-like claws digging into his shoulders, his knees. Arthur screamed and the wendigo screamed with him. He thrashed, tried to throw it, the pressure on his shoulder growing—

“Arthur! Wake up! _Arthur_.”

Arthur shot up, almost knocked his head into Charles’. Charles had a hand on his shoulder and kept tossing looks out of Arthur’s field of vision. He glanced at Arthur long enough to ensure he was okay, then stood, shotgun raised.

“Everything alright?”

“Mmm, don’t think so. You started mumbling the same time I saw it.”

Arthur scrambled for his guns, blood pounding in his ears. Stood next to Charles, stared into the dark but couldn’t see anything.

Charles fired into the dark without warning. The shot woke the horses. A terrible, familiar shriek overrode the horses’ concerned snorts. Arthur fell to his knees, covered his ears, eyes closed and guns forgotten. Charles crashed next to him.

Weren’t sure when the noise stopped, but Arthur was startled from his position by Calliope snuffling into the hair at the base of his neck. Arthur pried his eyes open, saw Charles trying to calm Taima. Calliope abruptly flopped at Arthur’s back, lay her head across his thighs. He pet the side of her face and stared into the fire.

Pulled from his blank thoughts by Charles dropping onto his own bedroll. Shotgun still across his bent knees. Taima had followed him, stood close enough Charles could pat her reassuringly.

“Gettin’ real goddamn sick of this thing.”

Charles hummed in agreement. Threw more wood onto the fire. Dawn couldn’t come fast enough.

  


Arthur insisted they push through to Mill Plains. Charles agreed, not wanting to spend another sleepless night in the wilds. Arthur looked even worse, somehow; Charles was sure he himself wasn’t a much prettier sight. But anyone who looked at Arthur for more than a second would be able to tell the man hadn’t seen a decent night’s sleep in some time.

The land had forgotten what time of year it was and the sun beat down on them without mercy. Arthur was miserable and sunburnt by noon, his face the only part of him to escape the worst of it thanks to his hat. Calliope sweat beneath him something fierce, dampened his pants where they touched her sides. Had a hard time keeping his eyes open, but every time sleep started to tug at him, he was jolted awake by images of the wendigo. Just wanted to get to Mill Plains, spend the night in a hotel, and kill the wendigo. Wanted to get back to a simple life of doing illegal shit and running from the law—getting shot at, with the threat of a hanging and the bounty on all their heads, was less stressful than _this._

Did not think he would be happy to see Mill Plains again, but Arthur sure as shit was happy to see it. They had made good time, probably because they packed up and left when the sun had just barely started to rise. Still a few hours before sunset, and Arthur had eyes only for the saloon and adjacent hotel.

Arthur hitched Calliope in front of the saloon, gave her a quick brush down while Charles did the same for Taima. Offered Calliope a few carrots, pet her neck and was lost to thought.

“Mr. Matthews! What brings you back here?”

Arthur jerked at the voice. Turned to face the man who had spoken to him from just in front of the saloon doors.

“Goodness, are you alright, Mr. Matthews?”

Arthur waved off Dr. White’s concern. “ ‘m fine, nothing to worry over.”

Dr. White leaned his elbows on the porch railing, glanced between Arthur and Charles.

“And who is this fine gentleman?”

“Charles. I’m a friend of Arthur’s. Asked me to come along for some hunting.”

“I hope you’re not expecting to find any more panthers, Mr. Matthews.”

“Nah, nothing of the sort.”

“Well, good. Say, why don’t you let me buy you two dinner?”

“Oh, that’s—”

“We was just gonna get a couplea rooms—”

Dr. White silenced them both with a gesture. “Please, I insist. I’ve had a terribly boring day and I could use the company.”

Arthur and Charles shared a look. Arthur shrugged, started up the steps to the saloon. “If you insist.”

  
After a surprisingly mellow meal, Arthur and Charles—both a little more drunk than they had meant to get—tottered over to the hotel. “Hotel” may have been a bit of an overstatement; the place only had three rooms and was more of an addition to the saloon.

Predictably, only one room was available.

Arthur sighed, wobbled on his feet as he glared at the clerk. The clerk, a young man Arthur thought weren’t even eighteen yet, swallowed loudly.

“I—I can give it to you for fifty cents, sir, apologies for the inconvenience.”

Arthur swiped the key from the counter. “Thank ye kindly, young sir.” Arthur stumbled down the hall, Charles no more graceful. Leaned heavy against the door and almost tripped over his own feet once he got it open. Charles _did_ trip, went sprawling face-first into the bearskin rug. Arthur was too drunk at this point to suppress his laughter.

Charles rolled onto his back with a sigh. Arthur struggled out of his boots, got his gun belt off before he pitched sideways onto the bed. It squeaked in a particularly odd way, which set Arthur off laughing again, and after a moment Charles joined in, muddled brain not even sure _what_ was so damn funny.

“You should take the bed. I ain’t gonna sleep well anyways,” Arthur mumbled, face smooshed into the quilt.

“That’s _why_ you should take it.”

“Na, na, Charles—” Arthur slid from the bed, sprawled next to Charles. “I. I. Insist. I _insist_.”

“Well, if you _insist_.” Charles hauled himself up, ignored the twinge in his thigh. Arthur was snoring, open-mouthed, before Charles even got under the quilt. Charles took the time to tuck a pillow beneath Arthur’s head before his own drunkenness got the best of him.

Mill Plains slowly fell asleep. The last of the drunks filtered from the saloon, stumbling over their feet, almost no light from the tiny sliver left of the moon. Calliope and Taima dozed, sides nearly touching, unbothered by the activity around them.

Far off, at the edge of the cliff that made up the entire eastern side of the town, a pale shape moved against the darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I combined the old chapter 2 with chapter 1, so if you've been following the story and are like "why did I get a notification for this being published again," it's because this *is* new content. 
> 
> Hi I've been having a very disrupted week, thanks depression/executive dysfunction.

The day was fast approaching unbearably hot. Arthur had discarded what extra layers he could. Charles had rolled his sleeves up, tied his hair back. Calliope complained frequently. Taima seemed to be the only one unaffected, quietly cantered to Arthur’s left.

They made it to the Butte a little after noon. Had set out early and pushed the horses to a gallop most of the way.

Now they’d made it to the edge of the Butte, near where Arthur had first climbed it. He brushed the lather from Calliope as Charles inspected the area. Taima had already been seen to, much more patient, and dozed in the shade of the rock. Calliope knocked her head into Arthur’s hand, sent the brush into the dirt. 

“Fine, you want to be dirty? Go be dirty.”

Calliope snorted, tossed her head and trotted a ways away. Met Arthur’s eyes and dropped into the dirt. Rolled onto her back, legs kicking every which way as she made her pleasure loudly known. Part of Arthur found it endearing, but it was a part much smaller than his annoyance at the heat and growing dread for the task at hand. He bundled the affection away for later.

Arthur busied himself checking his guns and loading ammunition into his satchel. Used his firm voice on Calliope to tell her to stay—he was confident she wouldn’t want to wander far from Taima anyways, but he had to stay consistent or Calliope would never listen to him proper. Grabbed a rifle and a shotgun from his saddle and made his way over to where Charles stared at the Butte.

“We can’t get the horses up this. Is there another way?”

“Don’t rightly know, this is where I went up last time. Left Calliope at the bottom.”

Charles scanned the horizon, looked back to the horses. Sighed. “We don’t have time to ride farther down. We’ll just have to leave them here.”

“Shouldn’t need ‘em if we do this right. Fire would scare them too much anyhow.” Arthur slung his guns over his back and started the climb. Charles followed his exact path with no difficulty. The heat seared into them both. Arthur had to wipe his hands on his pants a few times. Behind them, the steppes were quiet. They hadn’t seen anything on their ride in, not even the small critters typical of this landscape. Not so much as a lizard. Silence but for the tiniest breeze moving pebbles over dirt.

  
  
It was colder at the top than Arthur remembered.He looked around for the tree where he met the panther, couldn’t see it. The area felt familiar but looked. . . off. Couldn’t place what or how but it set his stomach flipping. His heart squeezed tight in his chest and his breathing increased as he realized he had no idea what he was doing, why they had come back,  _ why did I come back _ .

“Arthur.”

A steady hand on his shoulder, an unwavering voice.

“Just do what feels right. I’ve got your back.”

Arthur nodded, gulped, didn’t trust himself to speak. Stared at the short grass gently swaying in the wind. The vice around his heart didn’t let up, only got worse when he faced a certain direction, and he knew, knew with all the dread he had ever felt  _ that _ was where they needed to go.

Knew he had to move but his legs were numb. Charles gave his shoulder a squeeze and that was all Arthur needed to get going.

Apprehension unfurled along Charles’ shoulders as they walked. The flat stretch of ground hid nothing, yet he felt something slinking along beside them just out of sight. A flash of shadow from the corner of his eye, a tree moving in a way it shouldn’t. Whenever he turned his head to catch it, it would be gone, and his focus was brought back to Arthur. Arthur with a noticeable tremor to his frame, his rifle slipping in sweaty hands. The man readjusted his grip as often as he looked around. Charles wondered how Arthur wasn’t dizzy with how fast he whipped his head at the slightest sound. Charles moved up so they were walking side by side, barely a shoulders’ width between them. He could feel Arthur’s heat escape through the thin fabric of his shirt, fever-like.

There should be more noise. There were obvious animal signs, tracks and dung and bits of fur caught on scraggly bushes but nothing  _ alive _ . No rabbits scurrying, no deer grazing, no birdsong high in the pale trees.

“It’s too quiet,” Charles remarked before he could stop himself.

“Mhm. Weren’t like this last time.”

That did nothing to settle Charles’ agitation. Held his gun higher, walked an inch closer to Arthur.

“Any idea what we’re looking for?”

“A tree. Real big one. Different from the rest. S’where. . . .the panther was.” Arthur sighed, stopped walking. “Dunno why but it feels  _ right _ , goin’ there.”

Charles glanced over to him, but Arthur’s eyes were elsewhere, roaming the landscape. The steppe disappeared in the haze of distance to their left. Far-off mountains barely visible beyond the heat shimmer, easy to forget the green of New Hanover past all the dusty brown. The sun glinted off the river, but there were no signs of life.

“Saw a herd of mustang, last time.” Arthur nodded out at the dry steppe. “It’s a wonder anything even lives out here, considering.”

“I think what we’re hunting only goes after people.”

“Good thing we’re here then, huh?” Arthur adjusted his grip on his gun, moved forward.

They walked for what felt like hours. The sun above them barely moved. Its warmth did not reach them. The wind had picked up, whipped Charles’ hair around his face and threatened to snatch up Arthur’s hat. Nothing much changed around them, just the same stands of skinny pale trees and scattered bushes. 

Arthur stopped abruptly. Charles almost smacked into him, having fallen behind to check something on the ground. 

“What is it?”

Arthur pointed with his rifle. Just visible in the far distance was the tree he’d described. Big and sprawling, dark foliage turning it into a solid shape against the backdrop of the clear midday sky. Nothing between them and the tree except open grass.

And a lanky man with long, long hair black as a moonless night. The wind shifted it around his face, obscured his eyes. Skin ruddier than Charles’ and heavily wrinkled, looked like he spent a lot more time outdoors than either of them. Wore nothing but a pair of fringed buckskin leggings and short beaded necklace.

The man gave Charles a curt nod and had nothing but a deep frown for Arthur.

“You’re the bastard who shot me.”

Arthur felt Charles stare at him. “ ‘fraid you’re going to have to be more specific.”

The man stepped forward. Charles kept his shotgun pointed at the ground, wanted to reach out and lower Arthur’s rifle so they’d have better chances at a civil conversation.

“You shot me,” the man repeated, lifted a hand to his hair to pull it back from his face. Hole where his right eye should be, useless eyelid moved by the breeze.

“I—”

The wind shifted hard, kicked dust and dirt into their eyes and when they looked up the man was gone. 

A panther now stood between them and the far-off tree.

Charles tried to focus on the black cat and not on Arthur’s shaking shoulders. One marigold eye stared at them. The panther was not crouched, not trying to hide itself flat to the ground as if it hunted them. Stood tall with its head raised looking straight at Arthur. Its mouth opened. White teeth, pink tongue, and the hot rancid smell of old meat.

Charles raised his shotgun but the panther was faster. It lunged for Arthur. Flew through the air and landed on him, jaws open to snap around his throat—

And then the man was there, pressing his knees into Arthur’s gut, hands wrapped around his throat.

“Was taking my eye not enough? Are you back for my skin?”

Arthur squirmed beneath him. Hands clamped around the man’s wrists but he couldn’t shake the grip on his neck. “I ain’t got no idea what the hell you’re  _ talking _ about.”

The hands tightened. Charles kept his finger on the trigger guard, but brought the shotgun to the side of the man’s head.

“I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if you don’t release my friend.”

The man growled, didn’t remove his one-eyed glare from Arthur. “Your friend  _ shot me _ , tried to kill me.”

“The way he tells it, you tried to kill him first.”

The man leaned down and honest to God  _ sniffed _ along Arthur’s neck and jaw. That more than the hands clamped around his throat made Arthur uncomfortable.

“You brought more trouble with you.  _ Wetiko _ .” He looked to Charles, made the same deep sniff. “Both of you.” Leaned into Arthur, pressed harder into his stomach and brought his lips next to Arthur’s ears. “I would kill you if he weren’t here. I will kill you if you come back.”

Released Arthur and was ten feet away from them in a single blink. Charles kept his eyes on the man as Arthur coughed and stumbled to his feet.

“Why are you here? Why do you bring your  _ wetiko _ curse with you?”

“Thought you were  _ dead _ ,” Arthur grumbled, rubbing his bruised throat.Couldn’t look away from that eyelid flapping in the breeze.

Charles moved a half-step so he was in front of Arthur. “Our dreams lead us here. We mean you no harm.”

The man’s single brown eye darted between Arthur and Charles. “I believe  _ you _ mean me no harm.  _ He _ shot me.” He pointed to his missing eye for emphasis.

“You tore me up something fierce—”

Charles put a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “We only came for the wendigos.”

The man started pacing. Eye never leaving them. Arthur met his gaze.

He addressed Charles, but his eye never left Arthur. “I will help  _ you _ . But  _ he _ stays there.” 

Charles slung his shotgun over one shoulder. “Thank you.”

“Charles, you can’t be serious.”

Charles met Arthur’s eyes, shook his head and followed after the man, who had already turned his back to them and started walking away.

Arthur watched them disappear into a thick stand of trees. Thick enough there was a darkness between them that shouldn’t be there. The wind shook the boughs and the grass and he thought he heard whistling.

The sun seemed to have jumped behind the mountains. Noon one minute and dusk the next. Arthur shivered, sighed, and plopped into the grass. Tried to make himself as small as possible to conserve the heat in his suddenly frigid limbs. Stars poked through the dark purple ombre just above the mountains. The wind battered Arthur and he tried to convince himself the whistling would stop soon.

  
  


\- 0 - 0 - 0 -

 

The man walked in silence. Charles stayed a few steps behind.

“You can call me Tlaloc.”

“Charles Smith.”

“That is an unusual name for one such as yourself.”

“It’s the only name I know.”

Tlaloc didn’t look at Charles when he spoke. The sun had difficulty penetrating the close-standing trees. Charles hadn’t seen any trees like this as he and Arthur had walked. Not much about this Butte made any kind of sense, and the skinwalker was turning out to be the least of the oddities.

“Are you friends with many white men?”

“I wouldn’t say friends.”

“But you are friends with  _ that _ one.”

“He’s different.”

“He tried to kill me.”

“He was just defending himself.”

“And now he has an angry  _ wetiko _ after him.” Tlaloc spat after he said the word.

“So do I.”

The air shifted around them, a warm undercurrent to the breeze. It cut through Charles, reminded him of afternoons spent sleeping beneath a tree, of winter nights curled up in front of a fire. His skin prickled but he felt at ease. A puff of warm air lifted the hair from his shoulders and he resisted the urge to reach behind him.

“Yours is different. Bad luck is different from a curse.”

Charles frowned. “What do you mean ‘curse’?” The warm air was gone but not the feeling of  _ home _ . The ground beneath his feet pulled at him, begged him to lay down and rest his head among the tall grass. He smelled flowers, sharp and sweet and almost too much, jasmine in full bloom beneath a hot August sun.

But it was just the white trees and the blackness between them and the gentle sway of knee-high grass and a one-eyed shapeshifter and no flowers, and tears pricked at the corners of Charles’ eyes. He missed his mother.

Tlaloc held up a hand for silence. They stopped walking; Tlaloc pointed to a spring burbling from between two rocks. Some kind of granite or limestone flecked with sparkling white and green. Bright enough it could almost be called glowing The spring fed into a pool just large enough for someone to stand in, maybe up to their shoulders. Similar stones lined the bottom and sides of the spring. Charles thought he saw shadows swirling beneath the clear surface, wanted to believe it was just a trick of the odd light but some part of him knew better, knew not to question it.

“Leave your clothes and gun here.” Tlaloc indicated a wide, flat rock with half-familiar symbols etched into it. “Wet your head beneath the surface two times and come back. Do not speak once you are in the water. Do not speak again until we leave the trees. Do you understand? This will protect you from the  _ wetiko _ .”

“What about my friend?”

“Your friend is cursed. I will not help that.”

A cold pang of guilt flashed through Charles. “I understand.”

Tlaloc prowled the perimeter of the spring as Charles stripped. His eye never wandered to Charles, nor the water, just remained fixed on the surrounding area. Charles stood at the edge of the spring. Smooth mud squirmed between his toes. The warm breeze returned, ran calm fingers through his hair. He sighed, closed his eyes, stepped into the pool.

 

\- 0 - 0 - 0 -

 

Arthur accepted that he had finally lost his mind.

No way they had been walking long enough for the sun to be set already. He hadn’t been walking that long the first time he was here; he’d walked the creek (that they hadn’t found this time), walked back, and encountered that tree all before sundown. Everything was so  _ off _ this time it was like he’d come to a totally different place.

Had nothing to distract him. No animals rustling the brush, no birds singing, no panther to worry about—and  _ that _ was a whole thing he’d have to come back to, later, probably when he was drunk. He’d only just come to accept that a monster was stalking him, now he had to wrap his head around a  _ shapeshifter _ ?

Arthur shifted the rifle off his lap to rub along his throat again. Definitely had bruises forming, deep, and his gut ached, fierce, right where The Witch had dug into him. Not a single mark in the area but it still bothered him, sometimes. Not the way his back did, with its defined handprint, but he knew something had been fundamentally changed within him.

Shook his hands and tried not to think too hard on it. It would all be over soon anyways, right?

_ Don’t push your luck, you sorry old bastard _ .

Arthur dug through his satchel for something to eat. Weren’t all that hungry but he hadn’t eaten since dinner yesterday. Hadn’t much of an appetite but knew he needed to just put  _ something _ in his body so it wouldn’t give out on him. He found salted meat and cut thin slices off. Chewed them and watched the shadows grow as the mountains gobbled up the sun.

The wind started up again. Harder than before. Arthur’s hand shot up to grab his hat but the wind beat him to it and it flew backwards. Dropped his meat and his knife and sprinted after it, not thinking.

The wind changed directions. The hat shot sideways just as Arthur’s fingertips brushed the brim. He straightened, watched the hat be swept over the edge of the butte.

Sighed.

His hair got in his face easily. Needed a trim. Kept poking his eyes and tickling his nose. Knew he didn’t have any pomade to slick it out of his face. Wouldn’t be the most uncomfortable thing he’d had to deal with. The wind refused to let up and this time Arthur was certain he heard voices carried through it, whistling and laughter and something else higher, painful.

Arthur stomped back over to his discarded food and knife. Muttered to himself about how stupid this whole thing was as he shoved them back where they belonged. There was maybe twenty minutes of daylight left and Arthur’s shoulders itched, anxiety crawling along his skin like ants.

A gust made Arthur stumble. Could definitely hear voices now.

“Charles? That you?”

Arthur turned in a slow circle, gun ready with express rounds. It hadn’t been twenty minutes but the sun was fast disappearing behind the mountains. The day had gone by too fast, weren’t  _ right _ , weren’t right at all—

Arthur gasped and dropped to his knees, back alight and rifle forgotten. He grit his teeth against the pain and looked over his shoulder where he felt eyes on him.

The wendigo was little more than a lighter black against an inky sky. Yesterday’s crescent had been the last phase before the new moon and there was nothing but the stars to illuminate the horror before him.

He could still pick out the voids of its face, easier than breathing.

The wind stopped. Strands of hair dampened by sweat hung in Arthur’s eyes. He tried to remember how to breathe.

The wendigo took a step forward. 

A gunshot from the treeline. Charles rushed into Arthur’s peripheral, aimed for another shot.

The wendigo opened its mouth and screamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again I apologize for any inadvertently offensive things I do re: Native/First Nation cultural stuff. I'm just writing fanfiction for fun, and would do much thorough research on an original story, rather than the cursory half hour of googling. Tlaloc's name was from a random generator that I think just lumped in a bunch of different "Native American" names bc I saw stuff with distinct Mexican origins and stuff with distinct North American origins so. Sorry in advance. I am just a depressed gal trying to cheer myself up.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You ever listen to Stravinsky's "Rite of Spring"? This chapter's like that.

Charles knew nothing the moment he stepped into the water. The world disappeared and he forgot who he was. Remembered only Tlaloc’s instructions and nothing else.

Knew he was in water but that wasn’t at all what it felt like. Didn’t have the words to describe it, just knew he was safe.

He did as he was told and emerged from the water to see Tlaloc crouched, still in his human skin, growling into the trees. Charles only just remembered he wasn’t supposed to speak, slowly moved towards his clothes. Tlaloc made no indication he’d heard Charles leave the spring.

Charles tried to see what Tlaloc was staring at, but the world had darkened around them, as if the sun had gone down already. Which Charles was almost _certain_ it hadn’t, not for a few hours at least, the sun had been almost in the middle of the sky when they came across the skinwalker.

Tlaloc crouched lower. Between one step and the next he had shifted into the panther. Charles struggled to pull his pants over his damp legs. The still-healing wound in his thigh twinged and he stumbled back a few steps.

Perfect timing. A white shape collided with Tlaloc and the two shrieked in tandem. Charles dove for his gun, pushed through the pain in his ears to try and get a shot off but skinwalker and wendigo wrestled in a blur. Charles jerked on the rest of his clothes, never took his eyes off them.

Tlaloc kicked the wendigo away, deep red lines scored across its chest from his claws. The wendigo snarled and launched at the skinwalker. Charles got a shot into its chest, threw off its trajectory and Tlaloc was able to disappear into the trees.

The wendigo turned to Charles. Ice raced along his spine from the base of his skull. His hands shook around the shotgun. The wendigo crept closer, mouth gaping and jammed with long needle-pointed teeth. It got within spitting distance of Charles; he could smell the darkness on it, could feel the voids in its face calling to him before Tlaloc pounced.

The force of his jump sent the two creatures crashing into Charles. Barely able  to get his gun up and fire the second shot. He fell backwards. Landed half in the pool, skull snapping against a rock. Struggled to keep his spinning head above the water. Skinwalker and wendigo rolled over each other just out of reach of the spring. Grass torn to shreds and earth churned as if tilled to plant a fresh crop of vegetables.

_Go!_

Tlaloc’s voice sliced into Charles’ mind like an obsidian knife. Made Charles dizzy all over again but he found himself stumbling through the woods, shotgun more a walking stick than anything else. He could hear them fighting, the wet sound of flesh ripping. A high keen that could’ve belonged to either of them with how it tugged on Charles’ heart.

His head ached with each thundering footstep and the pounding of his heart. The snarls of a panther and the screams of the wendigo followed him through the copse. Branches caught in his hair, his shirt. Smacked into his face but he kept running.

A high scream. Tore along his back and made him trip over his own feet. Charles slammed into the ground. Rocks dug into his legs but he scrambled to his feet and kept running. No idea which creature the scream had come from but he prayed it wasn’t Tlaloc.

With no moon for light, Charles couldn’t tell how close he was to the edge of the trees. Just followed the tug in his chest he was certain would lead him in the right direction.

The trees began to thin, the darkness between them not so thick. Charles slowed to a jog. Branches snapped behind him; a tree groaned, cracked, crashed into his path. Charles had just enough time to stop before he was slammed into from behind. His shotgun went flying into the bushes and he was forced onto his front. Claws gripped his arms, dug into his legs.

Charles withheld the noises he wanted to make. Knew he’d be dead if he made any kind of sound. Felt the wendigo shift and he threw it off, reached for the fallen tree to pull himself back to his feet. Spotted the butt of his gun nearby.

Hadn’t managed to throw the wendigo far, either, but far enough to buy him some time. It shrieked, the sound terrible as ever but not driving Charles to his knees this time. He lunged for the gun, snatched it up and rolled and sprinted into the dark.

Charles burst through the treeline onto a night-dark butte. Leg threatened to stop doing its job, but his heart sped up impossibly faster when he saw Arthur hunched on the ground and another wendigo not far from him. Charles shot at it, not really hitting it but enough to get its attention off Arthur. He sprinted forward, saw the wendigo opening its mouth and fired another shot but it wasn’t enough to stop the flint-on-stone scream, the sound of a fox caught in a trap, a sound fit to cleave a mountain. Arthur hollered right back, slammed his hands over his ears. Charles shot the wendigo again—it skittered backwards, lost quickly to the darkness. Charles reloaded as he hurried over to Arthur.

“You alright?”

Arthur declined Charles’ assistance, only struggled a little to his feet. “Sure. Everything good with you?” His shirt was torn along the arms but the scrapes were shallow. He’d had worse from hauling hay.

“Saw the other one.”

Arthur brushed the dirt from his pants. “Christ. So they’re both still alive?”

“Looks like it.”

Arthur swore under his breath. Dug the firebottle from his satchel and got it ready for throwing.

“You got a plan?”

“Sure. Light this, throw it, watch them burn.” He handed the bottle to Charles along with an extra book of matches. Charles slung his shotgun over his shoulder.

Neither of them saw the encroaching shapes, Charles looking at Arthur and Arthur preparing the second firebottle. It landed on Charles, sent the bottle flying from his hand and shattering against the ground. Arthur had just enough time to throw himself out of the way of the second wendigo. Heard Charles go down but focused wholly on getting the firebottle lit, running as he did so. Felt one of the wendigos chasing after him.

Arthur got the bottle lit. Glanced back for a second to see the wendigo and threw with all his strength.

The bottle smashed against the wendigo’s pale skin. Flaming moonshine splattered onto the ground, ignited the grass immediately. The wendigo’s scream sent Arthur to his knees. Only moved when fire licked at his legs.

The wendigo was collapsed in the middle of a circle of quickly growing flames. Wind surged through the grass with renewed ferocity and Arthur had to outright sprint as the circle of flames doubled in size. Where it ate at the body of the wendigo the fire was purple and eye-searing white.

With the light of the pyre Arthur was able to see Charles wrestling with his own wendigo only a few yards away. His shirt and pants were torn, hair stuck to his face, mouth pulled open in a toothy sneer. Arthur yanked the shotgun from his back.

“Hey!”

The wendigo snapped its gaze to Arthur. Ice water in his veins, fire down his back, panic curdling low in his gut. Arthur’s heart ricocheted around his ribs and he emptied the pump action in the wendigo’s direction. Only about half the spray of buckshot hit it. Sufficient to distract it from Charles. It bounded over to Arthur and reached him between one blink and the next.

Arthur lost track of the world as the wendigo rolled and rolled and rolled them. He shouted for Charles to shoot the damn thing already. Arthur just needed it off him long enough to get his last firebottle out. The strength bled from his limbs where the wendigo had pierced them. A deep ache identical to a gunshot. The wind screamed, carried the smell of char and the crackle of flames and heat of the fire raging along the flat top of Blackshear.

“Charles! Shoot it, for chrissake!” A few pellets of buckshot would hurt less than what the wendigo was doing to him now. Would hurt a lot less than being burned alive.

A wordless feral snarl erupted from Charles. The wendigo’s face crowded into Arthur’s vision—he finally got his sawed off between them and fired. Got a pinch of space to shove the wendigo away. Charles called out to him, but Arthur scuttled out from beneath the wendigo. Between the smoke and the moonless night Arthur had no idea where he was, hardly knew which way was up and which was down. The low light from the purple fire couldn’t breach his disorientation.

Charles yelled at him again. Arthur couldn’t make out the words over the rush of blood in his ears. He saw fire explode against the shape of the wendigo. The wendigo howled. Lurched towards Arthur. Arthur covered his head and rolled out of the way.

Right over the edge of the butte.

Arthur had enough time to be embarrassed that he’d pissed himself before he died, and then he slammed into rock.

  
  


Charles shot at the burning wendigo as it stumbled from the ledge, dripping fire and rotten flesh. The fetid smoke clawed into his nose and plucked at his eyes. Tears clouded his vision and he thought he felt blood seep across his lips and down his chin. He watched the second wendigo stagger into the flames, disappear in the violet haze. No signs of Tlaloc anywhere. The wendigo’s cries rent his chest, tore deep beneath the muscles and left him open wet and dripping. Charles lost his grip on his gun and collapsed to his knees. Hands over his ears, eyes squeezed shut, tears spilling from them and tracking through the soot on his cheeks to mix with the blood from his nose.

And just like that, the sound was gone. Charles wiped his eyes on the hem of his shirt, all his aches coming back to life. The hip above his still-healing thigh was fairly shredded, the blood soaked into his pants the only thing keeping his pants up. Deep gouges on the insides of both forearms. His hands should be weak from it but adrenaline pumped harsh and fast, hotter than the blood seeping into his clothes, brighter than the fire in front of him.

 _Arthur_.

“Arthur!” Charles staggered to the sharp precipice of Blackshear. Didn’t want to look down. Charles tried not to think about what he would tell Dutch—if he would even go back, didn’t think he could face their leader with that kind of news even though it wasn’t his fault.

“You gonna stand there all night or are you gonna help me up?”

Charles opened his eyes. Hadn’t realized they were closed as he leaned over the cliff. And Arthur was there, just below him, five feet, maybe six, on a ledge so small one leg hung off the side of it.

“Charles!”

Charles jolted, saw Arthur was trying to toss his rope up to him.

“Don’t mean to be rude but I ain’t fixin’ to spend the night here and I think my leg’s broken.”

“Right, sorry, give it here.”

Arthur had tied the rope just under his arms. Charles apologized the entire short trip. Would’ve been easier if Arthur could stand on the ledge, but Charles was left to haul him by the rope. Tried his best not to jostle Arthur too hard as he dragged him over the lip of rock but Arthur still cried out. They both lay there, panting, Arthur half sprawled across Charles, Charles’ bleeding arms limp at his sides.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

Arthur could feel Charles’ heart rumbling near his head. The staccato matched Arthur’s jagged breathing. His whole leg, the one that’d hung over the ledge, throbbed and he couldn’t pinpoint any one area of hurt. The fall hadn’t been far enough to knock him out cold and he’d felt something in his leg snap and pop. The pain and the shock of falling left him cold and shaking. His back stung with small cuts.

“Are they dead?” Arthur managed once he got his breathing under control. Tried to roll off Charles but pain shot through his leg and he groaned, stilled. Charles eased himself out from beneath Arthur, made sure Arthur was moved as little as possible. Still hurt. Everything still hurt and Arthur just wanted to be _home_.

“They goddamn better be.”

Arthur stared up at the star-flecked sky. Dark as pitch, no moon, nowhere near dawn. Charles laid next to him, hands folded on his stomach.

“You alright?” Arthur turned his head to Charles. Could see dark splotches on the other man’s shirt, face ruined with soot and blood. Black hair stuck to his face like he’d dunked it in a water trough.

“No.”

“Me neither.” Arthur fumbled to grasp at Charles’ shoulder, tried to give it a reassuring squeeze. Didn’t have much strength behind it.

A tree, eaten hollow by the purple-white flames, collapsed into the blaze and sent ash and embers into the air. Another followed, then several more. The air could choke them if the wind decided to change directions.

“We gotta get moving,” Arthur said with another weak squeeze to Charles’ shoulder. Thought he felt Charles shaking beneath his shirt.

“Probably a good idea.”

Arthur snorted and tried to sit up. Gasped at the pain in his leg, felt something grinding in his hip and fell back into the grass.

“Just. Gotta. Just need a minute.”

Charles huffed a weak laugh. “Yeah. Same here.”

Arthur returned his attention to Charles. The man had his arms pressed into his shirt. Arthur could make out darker spots that must be blood seeping from wounds. Wondered where else Charles was injured. Arthur didn’t have much for bandaging in his satchel; all their medical supplies were in the saddlebags, a hundred feet below and who knew how many miles back. This butte was messed up and he had no idea how far they had walked during the day.

Arthur lost track of time, but it was long enough for his heart to calm and to forget the worst of his pains. His eyes had closed.

“Arthur? We need to get moving.”

“Right, how you figure that’s gonna work out?” Peeled one eye open to see Charles sitting up, left leg stretched out in front of him. Arms limp in his lap. Arthur could finally see the wounds there, clear from wrist to elbow. Deep. Still bleeding.

“Those don’t look so great.”

“Don’t feel so great either.”

Arthur wanted to scoot closer. Every time he tried to move, though, that grinding came back to his hip. Similar to how a dislocated shoulder felt, though he hadn’t seen anyone dislocate their _hip_. Weren’t sure how to pop it back in. Couldn’t tell if the rest of his leg was okay or not, not over the pain from the messed up joint.

“Need to get some bandages on ‘em. I’ve got a roll in my satchel.”

Charles watched him from the corner of his eye. His attention seemed divided between Arthur and the fire raging thirty yards away.

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

Charles made a vague gesture at Arthur’s . . . everything. Arthur scanned himself briefly but didn’t find anything bleeding near as much as Charles’ arms. He nodded at the weeping gashes. “Nothing so bad as that. Leg’s the worst of it.”

“Let me—”

“Charles, you ain’t gonna be much use to me if you bleed out, alright? Get the damn bandages.”

Charles rolled Arthur gently as he could to get at the satchel trapped under him. Arthur cried out and was left panting through the pain in his leg. Still reached forward to help Charles wind the bandages around his arms, insisted they wouldn’t be tight enough to do any good if Charles tried to do them one-handed. The effort left them both breathless. Charles tried to fuss over Arthur, but Arthur batted his hands away.

“Just help me up so we can get off this goddamn rock.”

Charles stood over Arthur, both hands out. Arthur grasped them, bit the inside of his cheek as Charles pulled him to standing. Or attempted to, at least; Arthur got his right leg beneath him, but the left refused to bend and Arthur was screaming, begging Charles to put him back before he could stop himself. Charles apologized, gripped Arthur by the elbows, crouched next to him. Arthur screwed his eyes shut and breathed harshly through his nose.

“I think I should check your leg.”

Arthur nodded, fingers dug into the fabric of Charles’ shirt. Charles eased him onto his back, crouched near Arthur’s hips. Pressed on the right, then the left—had Arthur arching off the ground, cursing him. Charles apologized as he prodded the area, moved down to check the rest of the leg. The touches were uncomfortable but Arthur couldn’t be sure anything really hurt, everything drowned out by the fire in his hip.

Charles reappeared in Arthur’s view, apologizing, ran a soothing hand over his head to get the hair out of his face. Arthur’s head spun with how fast he breathe and he willed himself to slow as Charles waited, patient, a hand on his shoulder.

“I think the joint is out of place. I don’t know how to fix it. Lot different from popping a shoulder back in.”

Arthur closed his eyes, breathed through his nose as the pain subsided to a duller ache. Charles watched the sky, hoping the edges would start to lighten soon. Some part of him thought that once the wendigos were dead, things would return to normal, that they wouldn’t be stuck hanging in the prolonged hours of this cursed day. No such luck. He swallowed, tongue thick in his dry mouth.

“Arthur. I don’t think I can carry you.”

“Wouldn’t ask you to.” Arthur got his elbows beneath him; Charles helped him sit up the rest of the way. “Let’s get this over with.”

Charles got one of Arthur’s arms around his shoulders. Wrapped his own arm around Arthur’s waist and swiftly pulled him to his feet. Arthur grumbled and groaned through the pain. Nodded when Charles asked him if he was ready to go, no strength to speak.

They wobbled away from the fire. No landmarks to go by, the light from the stars insufficient. Just the edge of Blackshear to their right, as it was on their left on the way in. Charles glanced behind them where the fire burned out of control. Chasing them. Slow. Wind buffeted his face, pushed the fire towards the trees, the mountains. Arthur’s haggard breathing drowned out any other sounds. The sky remained dark.

They walked. Well, Charles walked and Arthur dragged at his side like a poorly-dressed kill. Couldn’t seem to get his breathing under control and the night was getting darker. Darker? That weren’t right. Arthur shook his head to clear it.

“You alright over there?”

“Not really.”

Charles adjusted his grip, took more of Arthur’s weight. Pressed up against him, Arthur could feel Charles’ heart racing almost as fast as his own.

Arthur couldn’t see anything around them, couldn’t feel the breeze, couldn’t hear the fire close behind them. He sagged. Charles staggered.

“Charles, I don’t think. . . I don’t feel so good.”

The warning traveled too slow through Charles’ exhausted brain and Arthur dropped like a sack of maize. Charles crumpled next to him. Much of his adrenaline gone, used up, left him feeling like a recently shucked corn husk. Charles pat Arthur’s cheeks, trying to rouse him. Arthur may as well have been dead for all he responded, the whistle of harsh breath through his nose the only indication he was alive.

Charles stared at the fire. Purple-white, bits of orange and yellow striped through it. Devouring the arid land around it. Maybe someone would see the Butte burning and come to investigate, find Arthur and Charles’ charred bodies and dig them a proper grave. Charles’ hair clung to the sweat on his neck, the blood on his face. Wished he had something to tie it back with. The soft breeze played with the clumped strands, cold air chilling the blood soaked into his clothes.

The wind shifted. Charles didn’t notice until cool air was replaced by dry heat.

The fire pressed in around them. Charles shook Arthur—he couldn’t carry the man’s dead weight, not well enough to escape the flames sucking up the grass in every direction. The wind whipped the preternatural flames into a true blaze.

Maybe if Charles wasn’t dizzy from blood loss and his leg were intact, he could carry Arthur. For a bit. Not down the face of a butte. Not when Charles’ hands were slick with blood and sweat and his knees shook and his eyes stung.

Charles blinked and the world jolted beneath him. Found himself on his side, hair in his face, caught in the drying blood above his lips. Heat from the fire pressed into his back, his vision taken up by Arthur’s slumped form and the starry night behind him. He just needed to rest, just for a moment and then he could get up. Probably. Maybe. He’d have to drag Arthur the rest of the way, maybe tie the rope around his chest to make the job easier.

Charles closed his eyes, just for a moment.

  


\- 0 - 0 - 0 -

 

Arthur had an apology ready for Charles when he came back around. Charles wasn’t weak by any stretch of the imagination, but Arthur knew how unwieldy his body could be when he weren’t awake to help move it.

The night was quiet. No light beyond the stars. No idea what time it was. Couldn’t feel the heat of the fire anymore. Charles shifted beside him and Arthur turned his head, the only part of himself he could move without pain.

It wasn’t Charles besides him. The man, the skinwalker, stood next to Arthur, Charles passed out across his shoulders. The skinwalker gently laid Charles down, careful with his head. More blood had dripped from Charles’ nose. A stain wide as a fist from it on the front of his shirt.

“I have brought you far enough. Get off my land. Do not come back.” Several cuts, from shoulder to hip, glistened on the skinwalker. He seemed unbothered by them.

“You couldn’t _pay_ me to come back here, mister.”

The skinwalker turned away. Within two steps he shifted back to the panther. The night swallowed him.

Arthur didn’t think he could move. Without the immediate threat of the fire, he had no motivation to _try_. A quick glance around confirmed the skinwalker had dropped them right where they climbed the butte, where rock turned to sloped hill. Lot of walking had been done for them, but the hard part would be getting down to the steppe. Arthur had no confidence he could do it with his leg all messed up, and he knew Charles wasn’t strong enough for the both of them right now.

They’d work something out, they had to. They always did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The way Arthur says "sure" is something I think about far too often.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Angelicasdean for checking in on this, it was the final push I needed to finish the chapter. And another big thank you to AcademySenseiIruka :)
> 
> I spent May bouncing between 3 states and only spent about a week in my own house, and that was just to get fresh clothes. The end of April and all of May were...pretty fekken rough and I'm glad it's over and done with. Finally getting settled back into my room and feeling better after all the travelling and uncertainty I had going on.
> 
> Thanks again for reading~

The fire crackled between them, thin smoke curled towards a cloudless sky. Relentless heat had dogged them since Valentine and the warmth from the fire was unwelcome. Hosea had spread his bedroll as far from it as he could while John was stuck with the task of roasting their dinner.

They were not making good time. The trip could be done in a little over a day, if they went fast and their luck held. Silver Dollar threw a shoe just an hour into day one and they’d had to backtrack. John slipped into the creek while they watered the horses and they lost the rest of the day to his spluttering and shaking, too far from camp or civilization to turn around at that point. John insisted they ride into the night to make up for the lost time, and that went well enough that the both of them let their guard down and a pack of wolves nearly got the better of them.

John flipped the wolf meat on the cooking grate to sear the other side. Not a single clean kill between the two of them—John’s meal had several bullet holes through it. He’d saved the less mangled pieces for Hosea. The skins were next to worthless and had been left in a heap for the birds.

John glanced over to Hosea, just out of the corner of his eye. The older man looked to be lost in thought again. Still hadn’t told John why it was so damn urgent to run after Arthur. The way Hosea described Charles’ letter, the two had just gone to check out a lead, maybe do a little hunting.

“You gonna tell me why we’re after Morgan when he’s on a job?”

“He’s not on a job.” Hosea’s eyes did not leave the fire.

“Then what the hell are we doing out here?”

Hosea sighed, finally looked at John. “This is need to know stuff, kid. And believe me you don’t  _ need _ or  _ want _ to know. Now shut up and get some sleep.” Hosea turned his back to the fire, to John, pulled his jacket high up his neck. John wanted to offer him a blanket but remembered how well his last attempt had gone.

John scanned the dry landscape. Hard to tell where the ground ended and the sky began, the moon close to being gone entirely. Felt real uneasy, looking out into the dark like that. John figured he was still spooked from their run-in with the wolves—at least that’s what he told himself. Part of him knew there was something  _ else _ out there.

But Hosea was already asleep, and John was too tired to care about much more than eating and getting an early start to the next day.

So focused on roasting the meat, John never caught the movement of a human shape in the night.

 

\- 0 - 0 - 0 -

  
Dawn blushed across the top of Blackshear Butte and the steppe awoke slowly.

Arthur woke to a sharp puff of hot horse breath to his ear. Blindly held Calliope’s face between his hands, squinted against the morning.

“You awake yet, Arthur?”

“No,” he groaned, tried to sit up. The fire in his hip reignited and he flopped back. Instead, he turned his head to get a look at Charles. Seemed to be doing a hell of a lot better than Arthur was—Charles was on his feet, most of his weight on Taima, clothes torn and gaping and stiff with dried blood. Close enough Arthur could touch his ankle, if he tried. Close enough the smell of fire and ash wafted from him. Arthur was sure he didn’t smell any prettier.

“How the hell did we get back to the horses?”

“No idea. But we need to get moving.”

Arthur could not conceive of a world where he would be able to ride a horse. Charles looked like he didn’t want to tell Arthur the solution. Charles met his eyes, unwavering despite how unsteadily he leaned against Taima.

“It’s going to hurt no matter how you do it.”

_ I know _ . Arthur curled his fingers in Calliope’s mane. She’d tucked herself against him at some point in the night and hadn’t moved, not even when Charles offered her an oatcake.

“I might be able to help you up.”

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut, tightened his grip on Calliope. With an unrestrained yell he gave her the signal to tug him to standing. Couldn’t hear anything over his own shouting and staccato heart and he didn’t stop screaming until a broad warm hand clamped down on his shoulder. Arthur lay his head on Calliope’s neck, eyes closed. The scream was replaced by shallow breaths. Things spun around him in the darkness. The hand on his shoulder squeezed again.

Without warning, Arthur was shoved onto his saddle. The horn dug into his stomach wasn’t enough to distract from the pain in his hip. He lost track of everything, only able to focus on the fire sunk deep in his leg. 

  
  
  


Charles sighed, relieved, when Arthur passed out. Figured the man didn’t realize he was screaming while Charles maneuvered him into the saddle, apologizing the entire time. His injured leg was stiff; Charles worried he was making it worse but they had to get moving. Did his best to pad around it, get the weight onto Arthur’s other side by shoving his blanket around him. Charles had to tie Arthur, lopsided, onto the saddle. Charles was not confident he could get Arthur back up on his own. He’d managed to stand, just barely, around dawn. Too shaky to move, too weak to get in the saddle. Charles had considered leaving Arthur to gallop into Mill Plains for help. But he knew there were threats in the desert that could kill Arthur, stretched out and helpless, just as badly as the wendigo could’ve.

He paused for a moment. Blood had soaked through the bandages with an ease Charles knew should be concerning. But he was. Just so damn  _ tired _ . Calliope snorted and shifted beneath him but didn’t try to move away. Charles ran a hand along her flank, dismayed to see blood on her coat. Impossible to tell if it came from him or Arthur, at this point.

Charles staggered back to Taima. Could feel the wound on his hip open up again, a sharp sting where the edges of the wound pulled apart. No energy left to wrap it, though, so Charles just hauled himself into the saddle and nudged Taima forward. Calliope followed unprompted.

The noon sun burned them from above. Charles did his best to keep his eyes open, to steer them in as straight a line towards Mill Plains as possible. The brown landscape blurred around him, focus firm between Taima’s ears, lost to the gentle bob of her walk. Charles knew he couldn’t stay upright if they went any faster, knew Arthur would slide off if they went any faster, knew he wouldn’t be able to get either of them back on a horse if one of them fell.

Calliope walked close, close enough she could nudge Charles’ thigh with her nose whenever he started to nod off. He’d make sure to spoil her later, spoil Taima too. Charles still didn’t remember how they got to the base of Blackshear, suspected the horses had been compelled to come find them—he’d spotted small nicks all over their legs and had to dig out pebbles from Taima’s shoes. Could only assume Calliope was fine, from her uninterrupted gait. Wasn’t his problem to worry about. Had to stay focused.

A brief shadow of a vulture passed over them. Lizards skittered from their path. Occasional wheezes and whines escaped Arthur, slouched over his saddlehorn, forehead pressed to Calliope’s mane. Charles tried to wipe the sweat from his forehead. Still had dried blood all over his face and it  _ itched _ , but he found he couldn’t really pick his arms up from where they gripped the reins so loose Taima could do whatever she wanted and he wouldn’t be able to stop her.

Charles gazed at the impossible distance between them and the tall rocks blocking Mill Plains from the dry steppe. Could just make out the glint of the river. At their pace they wouldn’t make it to town before nightfall, but Charles was certain someone would run into them before that. He just. . . . had to keep his eyes open until then.

 

\- 0 - 0 - 0 -

 

The elation Hosea felt when the barkeep confirmed Arthur and Charles had been through town was tempered by the baked land stretched before them. Blackshear Butte was unmistakable in the distance, but the beginnings of a dust storm smudged its outline. They wouldn’t be able to see anyone too far off, and with no better lead than “they went to the Butte,” there was a decent chance they would pick the wrong direction and miss Charles and Arthur entirely.

Hosea could see John fidgeting out of the corner of his eye. The boy was starting to get suspicious, Hosea’s cover story too lacking. Hosea knew he would have to tell John the whole truth sooner or later, but right now the energy was needed elsewhere.

“Which way’re we going?”

Hosea sighed, kicked Silver Dollar forward. John kept pace beside him. “Figure we can head for the river, see if we pick up any tracks. Doesn’t rain much around here, should be easy to spot.”

The wind strengthened as they rode. Hosea had to fish his scarf from his bags and wrap it around his face; John followed soon after with his bandana. Visibility got worse and worse, and eventually they were forced to slow to a brisk trot. Hosea thought he might hear moving water, but Silver Dollar stumbled and stopped before he had much chance to focus on it.

Hosea spat curses as he dismounted. Probably that same damn shoe, just his luck. John stayed mounted, scanning the land before them. 

The wind died down as Hosea crouched over the hoof. Silver Dollar snorted in his ear but held still enough while Hosea dug around, dislodged several rocks. The shoe was loose, again,  _ goddammit _ , nothing to be done about it out here. He decided to check the rest, just to be safe. What a  _ goddamn _ waste of time, they needed to be finding Arthur—

“You see that?”

Hosea looked up from Silver Dollar’s hoof to where John pointed at two splotches shimmering in the heat haze.The dust had settled, but the air still held the promise of a true desert storm.

Without waiting for a response, John kicked Old Boy into a gallop towards the shapes. Hosea shouted after him, cursed under his breath as he mounted and raced after John.

It didn’t take long to confirm it was Arthur and Charles. Riding so close the mares bumped into each other every few steps. Hosea’s heart gurgled up his throat when he saw Arthur bent clear in half, slumped and unmoving. Charles sagged in his own saddle, but his head was still up and cloudy eyes blinked at Hosea as if he wasn’t certain he trusted what he saw. 

Calliope and Taima stopped in unison with no direction from their riders. Hosea dismounted and rushed to Arthur, heartbeat pulsing hard all the way through his head. Arthur didn’t so much as twitch when Hosea pressed into his neck, laid a hand on his chest. _ He has to be alive _ . Almost wept when he felt a steady pulse and regular breathing. Arthur’s clothes were a mess, covered in blood and what looked like ash, tattered like sails on an old schooner. 

“Oh my god, Arthur. . . what the hell happened, Charles?” Hosea glanced over his shoulder, hands steadying Arthur in the saddle. John was lowering Charles to the ground, looking like he had barely caught the other man. 

“He’s bleedin’, Hosea. Bleedin’ a lot.”

Hosea took a second to make sure Arthur wasn’t about to fall off Calliope, saw he was tied to the saddle. Calliope nervously shifted her weight, snorted. Hosea gave her neck a few pats before hurrying over to Charles. John tried to coax some water into him. 

Hosea knelt next to them, took in the mess that was Charles’ shirt. More bloodstains than fabric, sleeves torn clean off at the elbow. The bandages on his forearms were almost soaked dark enough to be unrecognizable as such; Hosea pressed a finger to one and it came away wet. A quick once-over didn’t give him much more information than the boys had been through one hell of a fight, but Charles’ arms were clearly his most pressing injury. Hosea didn’t waste time undoing the soaked cotton, just put more thick layers overtop. Charles managed to finish a whole canteen of water through the process, some of his color came back and he looked less ready to keel over any second.

“The hell kinda job were you two  _ doing _ ?” John asked at one point. Charles just shook his head, drank more water.

“Alright, that should hold until we get back to town. John, get him on your horse. No, Charles, those wounds could open up again. Just you rest now.”

Hosea took a few moments to try to rouse Arthur, but the most he got was a long drawn-out groan when Hosea tried to shift his legs. Charles couldn’t give him much, just that the left one was messed up and it was probably best just to leave him tied to Calliope. She did not seem fond of either Old Boy or Silver Dollar, but once they were trotting back to town she stuck near Charles. Hosea hedged in on her other side. Certain they were all close enough to catch either injured party should they start to fall, Hosea urged the horses into a canter, determined to make it to town by nightfall.

 

\- 0 - 0 - 0 -

 

Mill Plains was not an exciting place to live. But they hadn’t come here for excitement, they had come here to raise their children and get in on fresh land before anyone else had a chance to buy up every small fertile scrap just on the edge of the steppes.

The woman sighed as she browsed the dusty cans in the general store that doubled as a post office. She’d come into town hoping to find some kind of solution to her “grow vegetables or raise sheep” argument she’d been having with her husband for the last two months. The tinned sweetcorn in her hands held no answers and she put it back on the shelf.

“Can I help you find anything, Mrs. Donahue?”

Caroline sighed again and readjusted the baby on her hip. “No, Mr. Clark, thank you. Any mail for us today?” She sat the baby on the counter, made faces to distract her as the clerk dug through some boxes. Tabitha was having a particularly hard time with teething, more so than her sister Teresa, and today was Caroline’s turn to deal with the fussy baby. Poor Petey hadn’t slept in near two days. Caroline had found him napping in the outhouse just this morning.

The clerk slid a few letters over to her. Caroline thanked him, stuffed them into her bag, and rearranged Tabitha in her sling. Kid was getting squirmy again. Just one more stop at the doctor’s office for a special remedy he’d promised her, in exchange for dinner and a game of chess.

Caroline stood just outside the door and surveyed her boring little town. They’d gotten a break from the heat and more people than usual were out and about in the cool early-evening air. Just about an hour or so of daylight left, enough for her to get home but cutting it awfully close for being out by herself without the shotgun she’d forgotten at home. Caroline double-checked the black saddler was still hitched—the old gelding had snatched some hay from someone else’s horse and was munching away on it, not a care in the world.

Idly, she bounced Tabitha as the baby started to whimper, and made her way for the doctor’s. He’d be closing up, soon, but she had promised to come by today, and Xander was always kind enough to wait for her.

She had her hand on the door when she heard the shouting from down the road. Several other people nearby stopped what they were doing to take in the strangers. Caroline squinted against the setting sun, not wanting to believe what she saw. She recognized one of those horses, a red bay mustang with a thin white blaze down her face, rider slumped in his saddle, flanked by two men she didn’t know.

“We need the doctor,  _ now _ !” The older man on the silver horse pulled ahead of the others, pleading with the nearest person for directions.

“Over here!” Caroline stepped out from the shaded walkway, waving frantically. The bell above the door  _ ding _ ed merrily as Xander opened it, hand shading his eyes.

“Please, my son—”

“Oh, so  _ you’re _ Mr. Matthews!” Xander was looking over the man’s shoulder, at who Caroline was now certain was one Arthur Matthews. Her stomach soured at the sight of him; at least when  _ she _ had found him, he’d been conscious. Somewhat.

The older man was stumped at being recognized. The rest of the party had caught up; two men riding double, and an appaloosa Caroline assumed belonged to the other injured man—she could see the blood on his shirt from here. A fair number of townsfolk had gathered around the commotion. Dr. White waved at a few men and they helped Arthur and the other man down, Arthur sagging between them like a sack of flour. 

Caroline hovered. Tabitha started to cry in earnest. Dr. White paused in front of her as several men carried Arthur inside, followed by his father. 

“Mrs. Donahue, my apologies, but I think you’ll have to come back tomorrow for that remedy.”

Caroline nodded. Part of her wanted to go inside, but a bigger part knew she’d just be getting in the way, and a crying infant wouldn’t do anyone good right now. So she slowly walked to her horse, straining to hear anything from the office. She sighed, mounted, and left town at a canter.

  
  
  


Dr. White quickly shooed out any unnecessary people and gathered the necessary supplies. Arthur had come around, briefly, when they laid him out. At first glance he didn’t look as badly injured as last time, but Xander hadn’t gotten much of an explanation yet. His companion looked like he’d lost a fight with a bear. 

“I thought we were done meeting under such circumstances, Mr. Matthews.”

Arthur didn’t have the strength for any kind of quip. Barely had the strength to keep his head up as Hosea helped him drink a cup of water. The doctor moved around the room with an urgency that made Hosea uneasy. The doctor had found Charles a spare cot to set up in the front room to rest while they worked on Arthur. John hovered in the door.

“I wanted to put him on my horse for the ride back, but he seemed in too much pain.” Hosea looked to Arthur as he spoke, but he was barely conscious.

“It’s better you didn’t move this more. It’s already going to be difficult to get back in. How did this happen?” Dr. White eased the pants off, tossed them over his shoulder. 

“Not sure. Arthur’s been out of it and Charles hasn’t said much either.” Hosea grasped Arthur’s hand, squeezed.

Dr. White hummed to himself as he inspected the damage. Arthur’s legs were a mess of bruises and small cuts, but the worst of it was around his hip. Hosea tried not to look at the deformed joint, instead reaching to brush the hair from Arthur’s face and murmur soothing nonsense to him.

The doctor stepped back to better survey the damage. After a long moment, he nodded to himself, drew up a syringe of morphine, and explained the plan to Hosea. John was directed to more or less sit on Arthur to keep him steady.

“It might not go in one try. It’s been out of place quite some time, and the tissues are swollen. But if we leave it too long he could lose the leg.”

Hosea looked away as Dr. White grabbed and rotated and  _ pulled _ Arthur’s leg. Hosea felt the bone popping back into place through the bed. A second later Arthur roared and jerked upwards, barely held down by a startled John. Breathing like he’d just sprinted up a mountain, Arthur latched onto the first thing he found, which happened to be John’s shoulders. Fingers dug in hard enough to bruise but John took it without complaint.

Arthur turned to Hosea, eyes pleading  _ something _ , heaved a massive breath and passed out against the pillows. John slid off the bed onto shaking legs.

“Why don’t you go sit with Charles, son.”

John just nodded, looking everywhere but at Arthur. Hosea released a long breath once John was out of the room, removed his hat and ran a hand through his hair.

“He’s your son too?” Dr. White rested on the stool by the side of the bed and went to work on the deepest cuts.

.“Yes, with my second wife, god rest her soul.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago.” Hosea laid a hand on Arthur’s forehead, thanking whoever was listening that he didn’t seem to have a fever.

“Do you have any idea what they were doing out there?”

“Hunting, they said, before they left. Didn’t hear from them when we were suppose to, figured we should come looking.”

“Mmm, good thing you did. Too much longer and I might not have saved the leg.”

Hosea swallowed audibly. Arthur shifted in the bed with a groan. Eyes fluttered like he was coming around. Hosea leaned in, but the fluttering stopped in an instant.

Dr. White rung out his cloth, dumped the basin, and came back with clean water and antiseptic. “He’ll probably be out for a while. It’s a small miracle he doesn’t have a fever, there’s a lot of dirt in these. Some burns, too. Looks like he got too close to a fire.”

“I’m sure he’s got quite the story for us.”

“I wonder what can top a rogue panther. I almost don’t want to know.”

Hosea sighed. “Me either.”

Hosea’s mind wandered as Dr. White tidied Arthur up. Didn’t need too many stitches, in the end, the wounds made to look worse by the dried blood and general grime covering most of his skin. It was clear he’d been near some kind of fire, big enough to get soot just about everywhere. Like a forest fire, almost, though Hosea had no idea where there was even a forest around here to burn.

All the worry stored within him during their ride into town seeped from Hosea and he deflated in his chair.

“You should get some dinner,” Dr. White said to Hosea, not looking up from the neat line of stitches he was putting into Arthur’s arm. “I’ll be at this a while and you look like you could use it.”

“I’m not leaving my son alone.”

Dr. White paused, met Hosea’s eyes. “We won’t be alone. I’m sure his brother would like to sit with him for a while.” He smiled, and it crinkled around his eyes. Hosea realized this man was probably older than him by a fair bit. “Besides,  _ I _ haven’t eaten yet. You’d be doing me a favor getting food for all of us. Mr. Matthews here has a habit of showing up right when I’ve sent my assistant home for the day.”

Hosea stood, lingered with Arthur’s hand in his own. Arthur was well and truly out, chest rising and falling deep and even, face lax in sleep.  _ What the hell were you getting up to _ . Hosea knew, on the surface, what they had come out here to do, but he hadn’t any idea the kind of toll it would take. Arthur and Charles were among their best, and  _ this _ was how they came away from an encounter with a wendigo?

“Alright, I’ll be back soon. John!” Hosea called to John as he strode into the front room.

John was up in an instant. Charles appeared to be asleep as well. More blood had seeped into the bandages, but not enough to be alarming.

“Go sit with Arthur, I’m getting us some food.”

John nodded, face solemn and pale. It made the scars stand out even more than usual, and Hosea was reminded how  _ young _ John was. He put a hand on John’s shoulder and squeezed.

“He’s going to be fine, son.”

“I know.”

Hosea squeezed his shoulder once more. John darted into the back room. Hosea moved for the front door but a hand clamped around his wrist before he could take more than a step.

Wild eyes locked onto Hosea. Hosea immediately bent down and tried to soothe Charles.

“Hosea, it—”

“You’re safe, Charles, nothing followed us back. I think you killed it.”

Charles swallowed, eyes clearing, darting around the room.

“We’re at the doctor’s. He’ll see to you when he’s done with Arthur. I’m going to get us some food.”

Charles’ grip on his wrist tightened. “Arthur’s alright?”

“He’ll be fine. You’ll both be fine. You rest now.” Hosea peeled Charles’ fingers from his wrist; Charles finally realized what he was doing and loosened his grip.

“Thank you, Hosea, for coming for us.”

Hosea just nodded and made for the door.

Outside, he slumped against the building and slid down the wall until he was sat on the creaky porch. Something like relief welled into the space vacated by his earlier worry, and Hosea could hold back his tears no longer. The sky had darkened, the residents of Mill Plains settling in for the night. The thinnest slice of new moon hovered high above the rocks encircling the town. Rowdy laughter burst from the saloon. A startled horse whinnied, settled. Heat leached from the packed dirt road and over the porch.

A woman stood just outside the hotel, watching.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all y'all's comments and support! It really means quite a lot to me.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My insomnia got in a fight with my writer's block and guess which one lost!  
> Answer: me, I am the loser, because I still am not asleep OTL

_Three days later._

“I told you not to go running after him.”

John winced as Hosea wiggled a particularly stubborn spine. “The little shit stole forty dollars off me, what was I _suppose_ to do? Can’t the doc do this?”

Hosea dropped the cactus spine into the metal basin, wiped away the blood welling from the puncture. “Let him have it, kid looked starving. I offered to spare the good doctor your whining, this is simple enough work.” Hosea sighed, turned John’s arm over to inspect the rest of it. Satisfied nothing remained, Hosea bandaged the arm while John stared at the floor between his dusty boots.

“Something on your mind, son?”

John sighed, kept his eyes at his feet. “You finally gonna tell me what they were doing out there?”

Hosea released John’s arm. Looked around to make sure the assistant wasn’t nearby. Through the propped-open door to the clinic, it sounded like she was cleaning the remedy displays. Arthur was still asleep in the back room, Charles sitting with him, barely awake himself. Hosea glanced down the covered walkway, past the saloon, but it was hot and an odd hour and most of the town seemed to be holed up indoors.

The sigh deflated Hosea from the shoulders down. “I suppose you deserve an explanation.”

John didn’t believe him, of course. Hosea could tell John wanted to call him a liar. Much of the afternoon passed as Hosea explained everything. A few customers had come and gone during that time. Hosea moved them inside when the end-of-day heat became too much to talk on the porch.

Pushing close to sundown when Hosea finished, asked John if he had any questions.

John considered for a moment. Drew in a deep breath. “So what’s the plan, then? Get word back to camp, have someone come bring a wagon?”

“That’s it? You don’t have any questions?”

“Like you said, this was ‘need to know’ and I didn’t need to know, and you were right. Didn’t _want_ to know that. Can’t do much with the information now anyways, since the things are dead.”

Hosea leaned back, eyes narrowed at John. “Really, that’s all?”

“Yup. So what’re we doing with Morgan now?”

Hosea stood, rolling out his shoulders, popping stiff joints. The doctor hadn’t made it back from house calls yet, but his assistant had gotten Charles and Arthur squared away with dinner. “I already sent a message, haven’t gotten anything back yet. We’ll just have to stick around town until Arthur’s . . . a bit better.”

“Ears still work just fine,” Arthur grumbled from where the assistant was finishing up redressing the cuts on his arms. An empty bowl had been shoved to one end of the nightstand to make room for the medical supplies. Charles had fallen asleep in the chair next to the bed, again, his own dinner forgotten on the floor next to him.

Hosea leaned against the door frame. John loitered behind him.

“I’ll have to talk with the innkeeper and see about getting some cots set up in one of the rooms.”

“Slept in worse.” Arthur grunted as Miss Mayfield pulled a bandage tight. She murmured a quick apology and went back to work. “Charles here can sleep through anything, just toss him on the floor.”

“Just because I _can_ sleep in a chair doesn’t mean I _want_ to,” Charles mumbled, eyes still closed.

“Then why the hell you keep doin’ it every day? I get fussed over enough between the doctor and this fine young lady here.”

“Enough, you two. I’ll figure something out. In the meantime, Charles, go sleep on the damn cot for once.”

Charles pried his eyes open. Barely suppressed a yawn. Kept the sleeves of his new shirt rolled all the way down to his wrists, couldn’t see the white of the bandages, would’ve looked fine if not for the puffiness around his eyes and the cuts on his face. He’d washed his hair, at some point, weren’t nearly half as bad as when they’d found him, but still looked like it needed some proper attention.

Miss Mayfeild had finished her work on Arthur, stood and swept her skirts behind her as she glided over to Charles. Moved with an odd, beautiful grace. Not for the first time, Hosea wondered how she’d ended up in a town like Mill Plains.

“Mr. Matthews is right, you really _should_ be resting on the cot, sir.” She had an arm on Charles’ elbow and was guiding him out of the room before he could even protest.

Hosea took her place on the stool. “John, why don’t you go get something for you and I to eat?”

John could recognize the dismissal for what it was and obeyed without protest. Arthur turned tired, clouded eyes on Hosea—Dr. White had insisted on regular doses of morphine, something about muscle tension brought on by pain impeding the healing process. Hosea settled a hand on Arthur’s shoulder.

“How’re you feeling, son?”

“ ‘m fine. Why’s Marston all cut up?”

Hosea chuckled. “Oh, that? Got himself caught in a cactus.”

“Course he did.” Arthur sighed, leaned into Hosea’s touch. “ ‘m real tired.”

Hosea’s smile fell. Reached up to brush the lank hair from Arthur’s face. “That’s alright, you just rest and let me worry about finding us a place to stay.”

Arthur’s eyes fluttered closed. “Thanks. For coming after my sorry ass.”

“I could’ve helped, if you had just come back to camp and _told_ me, Arthur.”

Arthur sighed, deep, breath evening out. Hosea thought he’d drifted off, so long was the pause before he next spoke. Struggled to get his eyes open again but wanted to look at Hosea more direct.

“Weren’t in my right mind when Charles found me. Hadn’t slept in a few days. I don’t. I.” A hand came up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Thought I was gonna lose it, felt like that thing were always watching, just wanted it dead. I—I’m sorry Hosea, you’re right, I should’ve—”

Hosea hushed him with a squeeze to his shoulder. “Nothing to be done for it now, I suppose. You’re sure they’re dead?”

“Burned down half a forest, if that didn’t kill ‘em I figure there’s not much more we can do about it.” Arthur settled back into the pillows with a sigh. “Haven’t had any weird dreams about ‘em, that’s gotta count for something.”

“And I haven’t heard any _odd tales_ around town, so to speak. I think we’re in the clear.”

Arthur nodded, eyes closed, put a hand over Hosea’s. “I owe you, Hosea.”

Hosea squeezed Arthur’s shoulder again before standing. “No, you don’t. Get some sleep, son.”

\- 0 - 0 - 0 -

The solution to their lodging problem waltzed into the doctor’s office the next morning. Caroline showed up with her teenage son and her wagon and _insisted_ they stay with her, “just until things get sorted.” Hosea assured her he would send for their own wagon soon. Caroline brushed it off and said it wouldn’t be a vacation, she was going to put them to work.

“Work” turned out to be Petey dragging John around the property and Hosea helping can vegetables for an hour before excusing himself to sit with Arthur.

Hosea nearly ran over someone when he turned around from the kitchen bench. Short slip of a woman with tanned skin and black hair braided to her waist. Grey apron wet with all down the front. She had rather voluminous skirts for doing housework, but what did Hosea know about women’s fashion?

“Oh disculpeme señor! Señora Caroline, the wash is ready to be hung.”

“Thank you, Helene. Mr. Matthews, this is our housemaid, Helene. She lives in town, she’ll be here every other day.”

Hosea gave her a small bow. “A pleasure, Miss Helene.”

“Gracias señor. I should turn the beds now.”

“Oh, Helene, my apologies, I forgot to tell you. . . .”

Hosea left them to it and went to Arthur’s room. Still had to keep a close eye on him for infection.

Arthur was exactly where Hosea had left him that morning. The ride from town and the move into the room had exhausted the poor man, and that coupled with another dose of morphine had him knocked out. Doctor said it was for the best, anyways, easier to heal when you slept. Just had to make sure he ate something and drank regularly.

Hosea hadn’t had much opportunity to speak with Charles, yet. Slept almost as much as Arthur. Hosea knew Charles was trying to hide the weakness in his hands, but Hosea had seen it when he tried to eat on his own. Shook more soup out of the spoon than he got in his mouth. Doctor said the wounds were deep but missed the tendons. Would take a while to heal, though. Hosea overheard Charles ask when he could start hunting again and the doctor had said to “give it a few months.”

They’d worry about that when the time came. For now Hosea was going to keep his mouth shut and make sure everyone got home in one piece.

\- 0 - 0 - 0 -

He woke light-headed, just as he had the whole last week. Doctor said it was to be expected, but Charles hated how the world spun around him and he felt ready to fall even laid flat as he was. Hated how weak he was all-over, barely enough strength in his fingers to eat. He refused to inconvenience Caroline and wasn’t about to let some stranger hand feed him. Ended up spilling quite a bit of beans on the towel tucked into his shirt. Could only assume Arthur wasn’t a whole hell of a lot better in the other room.

The size of the house had surprised him when they trundled up the uneven path. Caroline said something about how she and Petey always wanted a big family, "but damn if I’m gonna let him near me again, twins damn near killed me." The two-story house had three bedrooms upstairs, one downstairs, and an extra sitting room that they’d set a couple cots in for John and Hosea. Though Hosea fell asleep most nights next to Arthur in the downstairs bedroom. Charles had no idea what John got up to during the day. Charles was too worn out to stay awake long, and he hadn’t woken before noon since they’d come here. Starting to get annoyed and he felt like he needed a wash. Wanted to do something useful with his hands already.

Three knocks on the door.

“Come in.”

Caroline always waited for him to respond. Again Charles wondered what had made her decide to settle her family on the edge of land bad for everything except getting a sunburn.

Had a tray of food, just like she had every morning. Charles thanked her as she sat it beside him on the bed. “Thought you might be getting tired of soup. Joseph snared a few rabbits this morning, wanted to show off and share.”

The hindquarters glistened with a dark sauce and had been laid over a bed of bright green peas and long strips of squash. Caroline caught Charles staring at the food.

“They’re not canned, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Charles met her eyes, offered her a tiny smile. “Not at all. Just can’t remember the last time I saw fresh vegetables.”

Caroline returned the smile with a small laugh. “Our neighbor's garden is rather successful. She trades me for eggs.” Caroline turned to leave. “Mr. Matthews senior said he was going to town to send a telegram. Said I should put John to work so he’s out mending the fence with Petey. Arthur’s awake, just be careful on the stairs.”

Down the hall, the twins started their daily wailing. He usually slept through their crying and always rebuffed Caroline’s apologies.

“And that’s me, off for the day. Holler if you need anything.” She pulled the door shut behind her. Really, the crying didn’t bother Charles all that much, and were he in better health he’d offer to help with the babies.

The fork wobbled in his hand as he brought a piece of rabbit to his mouth. Could hardly feed himself, had no business holding an _infant_.

Charles found himself savoring the food in a way he hadn’t in some time. Usually just fed himself to keep going, didn’t pay much attention to the flavor. Pearson didn’t try to make the stew good, seemed, just tried to cram enough meat in there to keep everyone fed for another day.

But this? This was _good_. Charles hadn’t had anything quite like it, the sauce tacky and crisped in places. Had a sweet tanginess to it, thought maybe he could taste molasses under the spice. He picked the bones clean and polished off the vegetables like they were nothing. Had nearly forgotten that peas weren’t supposed to taste tinny. The squash damn near brought tears to his eyes but he couldn’t quite figure out why.

The meal did a lot to ease the shakiness of his limbs. Charles left the plate (licked clean, looked like there hadn’t even been food on it) and the tray on the nightstand and made his way downstairs. Sounded like Caroline was still with the twins in her and her husband’s bedroom.

Charles kept a hand firmly on the banister. He’d tried to be a polite guest and take his own dishes down, one time, but hadn’t been ready for it. Tripped and missed the last three stairs, apologized for the broken plate even as Hosea pulled pieces of it from his hands.

 

The house felt empty. Must not be a day for the maid and everyone else was outside. The bedroom Arthur was in faced east but that hadn’t done much to wake him up any earlier in the day.

Charles cleared his throat at the door so Arthur wouldn’t be completely caught off guard. “How are things?”

Arthur waved him over to the armchair Hosea usually slept in. “Oh, can’t complain.” The bitterness was plain in Arthur’s tone, and without his hat to hide behind Charles could easily see the pinch between his brows.

“That bad, huh?”

Arthur sighed, closed the book without marking the page and dragged a hand over his face. “I can’t even take a shit by myself, Charles. Hosea won’t let me. ‘Doctor’s orders.’ You believe that?” Arthur scoffed, shook his head and tried to push himself up higher in the bed. Charles watched his elbows shake but did not offer help. Eventually Arthur got enough leverage with his good leg that he sat straight against the headboard. Pale and panting, but he’d done it himself.

“You good?” Charles asked after a few moments.

“No, Charles, I most certainly am not good.” He sighed again. Thumped his head against the wall. “I’m tired and _sore_ and bored and I hate imposing on a near stranger.” Arthur picked at a loose thread on the quilt, kept his eyes firmly on the bed. “Y’all should head back to camp without me, no reason to stay down here while I get well enough to get back on a damn horse.”

“Arthur—”

“John shouldn’t be away from Abigail and Jack so long—”

“Arthur, you don’t—”

“Might not even be any use once I do get back, doc said sometimes. . . these kinda things don’t. Don’t heal right.”

“Arthur, we’re not just going to leave you. I’m sure Hosea’s told you that already.”

“But still—”

“But nothing. We’re staying. If I’m being honest, _I_ don’t feel like I can travel yet.” Charles laughed to himself, mirthless. “Don’t know how you missed me falling down the stairs a few days ago.” Waved his bandaged hand to emphasize his point.

Arthur finally looked up from the quilt, at the bandages wound thick around Charles’ arms.

“I don’t know how much you remember, _I_ don’t remember it well . . . but you haven’t seen how deep these were. I can barely hold a spoon up to feed myself, I’m not going to be handling reins or drawing a bow anytime soon.” Charles slid a finger under one bandage, just at the very edge where he could feel the last stitch on the long gash. “Lost a lot of blood. Still get dizzy every time I stand.”

“. . . shit, Charles, I’m sorry. Too busy over here pitying myself to ask how you’re doing. Christ, I hate morphine.” Arthur scrubbed a hand over his face again, frowned at the unkempt beard growing there. “First day I’m off the shit and my head still don’t feel right.”

“That’s good, though, that you're off it.”

Another sigh. “Sure, I suppose. Hurts a lot less, at least.”

“But you still can’t take a shit by yourself.”

That pulled a genuine laugh from Arthur. “No, no I cannot.”

They lapsed into silence. The floor above them creaked, Caroline moving around the bedrooms tidying up. The twins had quieted some time ago. Footsteps on the stairs. Arthur opened the book on his lap but didn’t seem to be reading it. Charles was starting to drift towards a nap.  
“Hola, ¡señores!”

Arthur and Charles both startled at the petite woman in the doorway. Neither had heard her approach.

“Oh, lo siento, señores. I came for any dishes, Señora Caroline is busy with the girls.”

Charles knew he should not be unsettled by this tiny housemaid. But whenever he was in the same room as her. . . . darkness gathered deeper in the corners and every part of him wanted to be as far from her as possible.

Seemed Arthur felt much the same, if the way he tensed was any indication.

“Think Hosea left them on the dresser, thank you.”

“Would you like the window open? It’s not so hot out today, nice breeze too.”

“No, thank you, Helene.”

She paused halfway to the window, hand raised. “Ah, perdón por molestarte. I’ll just take the dishes.” She tucked them under one arm, swept up her skirts in the other. “A dios, señores.”

Arthur watched her go. Charles kept his eyes somewhere by the bed, not wanting to be obvious.

“I do not care for that woman and for the life of me I cannot figure out _why_. Something . . . mighty unsettling about her.”

“I’ve experienced enough unsettling things to last a lifetime.”

Arthur shuddered. “You and me both.”

Charles reached for the abandoned book when Arthur’s eyes started to droop.

“Hey, I was reading that.”

Charles chuckled, flipped the book open to a random page. “You were falling asleep. I’ll read it aloud, keep us both entertained.”

\- 0 - 0 - 0 -

_Worried for you and the boys. When can we expect you home?_

Dutch hadn’t signed it, but Hosea knew the telegram was from him. Had not been expecting it when he went to the Mills Plains post office to send his own telegram to Valentine. How long had they been gone? Hosea chewed his lip as he counted backwards. Nearly two days to get here, three or four days at the doctor’s, hard to keep track what with how exhausted they had all been, and now a week or so holed up with the Donahues. So two weeks, almost, with no word from the four of them. No wonder Dutch had gotten worried. John and Arthur disappeared on a whim, sure, but Hosea knew better than to run off without sending word back. Charles was too good for them and Hosea wouldn’t be surprised if he never turned back up, one day.

_All’s fine. Need wagon to bring Arthur and Charles home, none available in town. Please send at earliest convenience. -H. M._

“Would you like me to send for you if I get a response, mister. . .?”

“Matthews. And yes, that would be appreciated. Me and my boys are staying with the Donahues, you know where that is?”

The clerk laughed. “Small town, mister, everyone knows where everyone lives.”

Hosea tipped his hat and stuffed the telegram into his pocket as he left. He had a small list from Mrs. Donahue, insisted she had to let him do something for her, since she was so willing to lend her house for their convalescence.

The man at the general store (“the one at the far end of town, not those dusty shelves Marv hardly stocks at the post office”) made too quick work of the list, didn’t leave Hosea time to get any real thinking done.

“Hmm, you’ll have to see the doctor for this one, I don’t stock that tonic. Too expensive.” He was pointing at something underlined at the end of the list.

“Ah. How expensive?”

“Oh, well, it depends. . . .I think the doctor gives a discount. But for me to stock it? I’d have to sell it for ten, fifteen dollars.”

 _Ah_. So this was the price for their room and board. Seemed fair enough, putting up and feeding four grown men, two of which couldn’t even lift a finger to help. Hosea was pretty sure he’d have enough. Hadn’t exactly thought to load his pockets down, little too focused on saving his fool of a son.

 

Hosea was nearly knocked on his ass by the doctor’s door opening just as he reached for it. As it were, the doctor’s arm shot out to grab Hosea by the elbow to keep him from toppling off the walkway into the hot dust.

“Oh, goodness! Mister Matthews, I’m terribly sorry.”

“Ah, no harm done. Off somewhere?”

“As luck would have it, I was going to see your son. How is he?”

Hosea stifled a cough. “Happy to be off the laudanum. Not happy about needing all the assistance.”

“Yes, well, that’s no surprise though, is it.”

A small laugh. “No, I suppose not.”

“Care to ride with me?” The doctor gestured vaguely in the direction of the Donahue’s. A creamy draft horse seemed to be waiting for him, loaded with large burlap sacks.

“Sure, but Mrs. Donahue sent me on a bit of an errand. . . .” Hosea held the list out to the doctor.

“Hmm, yes, I meant to give this to her a few weeks ago, and then you and yours rained excitement down on our little town and I clean forgot.” He took the paper from Hosea, turned back into the office. “Let me just go grab it. Miss Mayfield! Watch the shop for me, will you? House calls!”

The bell jingled and the doctor disappeared. It jingled again, Hosea away from the door this time, and Doctor White strode over to his horse and swung onto it without another word. Hosea caught up to the draft’s plodding stride easily, though he had to tilt his head back somewhat to be able to look at the doctor as he spoke.

“I would have stopped by sooner, but there was a terrible accident out at the Farrow property, and it’s a full day’s ride one way and I was stuck there some time. Lot of mangled hands and missing fingers.” He sighed, shook his head to himself. “Why is it young men think they’re so invincible they can take on farm equipment, and bulls, and cacti and coyotes and win?”

“I wish I knew the answer myself, might be able to keep my boys out of trouble.”

“Pardon me asking, but your younger one, John is it? Nasty scars he’s got, did he pick a fight with some dogs?”

“Nearly. Was out hunting by himself, got lost in a snowstorm and some wolves got the better of him. Idiot’s lucky Arthur found him when he did. Should’ve seen his leg.”

“I’d pick a gun over a wolf. Bullet wounds tend to be a lot cleaner.”

“I think we all would. Though I would _prefer_ they both stop getting themselves in such messes in the first place. Going to worry myself into an early grave if they keep this up much longer.”

“I don’t have children of my own, but from what I hear, that just seems to be the parent’s burden.”

Hosea sighed. “So it is.”

\- 0 - 0 - 0 -

“And here I thought my ugly mug finally scared you away.”

Doctor White humored Arthur with a chuckle. “Hardly. Someone younger and more foolish than you required my attention outside of town. I promise I would have been by to bother you sooner otherwise.”

Arthur tried to focus on the sounds of everyone else having dinner in the front room. Knew he’d be aching after the doctor poked and prodded at him.

Doctor White peeled back the covers. Arthur had submitted to the ordeal of wearing a long nightshirt for the duration of their stay, hurt too much trying to manipulate a union suit over the injuries. Xander asked permission before lifting it away from the injured hip.

The bruises had lightened from black to swampy green with yellowed edges. Arthur flexed his toes, winced.

“If you say it ain’t so bad. . . .”

“Oh, no, Mr. Matthews, it’s quite serious. But it _is_ healing. Now I have to do something very uncomfortable and test your range of motion.”

“Please, Mr. Matthews is my father,” Arthur drawled with a lopsided grin.

Xander shrugged, motioned for Hosea to come around the other side of the bed. “If your _father_ wouldn’t mind keeping you steady, yes just like that, Mr. Matthews. This _is_ going to hurt.”

Arthur was not at all ready. Thought maybe he were, not like he hadn’t moved at all—thought being moved to relieve himself had goddamn hurt, this probably wouldn’t be so bad.

Only it was, and then so much worse. He was left sweaty and panting and given a shot of morphine before he could beg for it.

“I do apologize, but it’s healing well. Another few weeks of bedrest and you can start to try putting weight on it. I _highly discourage_ you from riding anything for a month, at least. You should be able to walk and squat without pain before you try riding.” Doctor White sat on the edge of the bed, made sure Arthur looked at him directly. “I am quite serious about this, Arthur. It’s not just an ankle sprain and a broken arm. Dislocations can do a _lot_ of damage, and yours was prolonged. If you want to be functional, you need to take it easy.”

“I’ll see to it that he does. Thank you, doctor.”

Doctor White gathered up his things. “The stitches can come out next week. I can remove them, if you think you’ll still be in town.”

Arthur leaned into the hand Hosea placed on his shoulder. “We’ll send word if we are.”

Xander leveled one last stern look at Arthur. “Try not to soak the wounds for another week after that. Cover them if they start to bleed. And _rest_ , dammit.”

Once the doctor was out of earshot, Arthur released a harsh breath, pressed his hands around his hip.

“Son of a _bitch_ that hurt.”

“Good, maybe now you’ll stop trying to leave like the bed’s on fire.”

Arthur sighed. “Hosea—”

“I’ll bring you some dinner.”

And Arthur was left alone with his thoughts and his throbbing leg.

 

Hosea stepped into the dining room. Thought he had heard everyone gathered there—John had managed to coax Charles downstairs earlier—before he went to check on Arthur, but now it was quiet.

“Mr. Matthews, joining us at last.”

Hosea halted in the doorway. Caroline was face down in a pool of blood and Helene had a pistol to Petey’s head. The man had murder in his eyes, but Helene couldn’t see it from where she was, with one arm locked around Petey’s neck. She had to be straining on her tiptoes just to reach him.

Hosea looked for John and Charles but they weren’t at the table. He didn’t have his gun on him, none of them did, didn’t feel right carrying iron on his hip in someone’s house when they were just guests. Petey didn’t wear a gun in his own house and kept the shotgun by the door, it would’ve been poor form to strap on a gun belt every day. Arthur’s and Charles’ weren’t even _in the house_ , stowed with their saddles in the barn.

Something landed on the table in front of him.

“Hey gringo, I said tie him up.”

“Why don’t you just _kill_ me, you already killed my—”

Helene bashed him on the eyeless side of his face with the butt of the pistol. “She’s not dead, encantador, but she will have a nice scar.”

Blood slid down Petey’s face from the gash. He looked to Hosea, pleading. Helene pointed the gun at Hosea and tightened her grip around Petey’s throat.

“Tie him up already, pendejo!”

“There are easier ways of robbing people, you know,” Hosea spat at her as he tied Petey’s hands to his chair. Did it in a way it could be undone, if Petey was clever.

Helene stuck the gun low in Hosea’s back once he finished. “Muevate.”

Hosea slowly raised his hands in surrender and allowed himself to be pushed from the room. Halfway down the hall when he heard the front door open, two pairs of boots hitting the floor. Hosea’s heart sank as he heard John and Charles talking.

“Told you she was fine, been taking good care of her.”

“I’ve seen the way you take care of horses, Marston.”

“Hey, never said I was the one taking care of her. Joseph’s the real talent around here. Lucky Calliope likes Caroline or we’d never hear the end of it when Arthur sees her.”

Helene pressed the gun harder into Hosea’s spine. “Callate. Go.”

Footsteps through the front hall. A few more and they’d meet Hosea and Helene in the doorway to the sitting room.

“Caroline? Hosea? Petey come in for supper already? I thought . . . . the hell is going on here?”

John came into view, Charles immediately behind him. Helene sighed.

“This really isn’t how I wanted this to go.”

She waved a hand and Charles went flying. Crashed through the couch and slammed against the wall and didn’t move. John surged forward but Helene just waved her hand again and off he went, flying through the air until he stuck to the wall, a foot off the ground, mouth jammed shut around his own bandana.

She shoved Hosea farther into the sitting room, made him turn around to face her. “Ay, pobrecito, that just leaves you.”

She snapped her fingers and Hosea’s world went dark.

 

\- 0 - 0 - 0 -

 

Arthur had been tiptoeing the edge of sleep all afternoon. Did his best to hold out for dinner but as soon a Hosea left the room he lost most of his motivation to stay awake.

Didn’t have any problems once he heard the crash from the front of the house. Tried to swing his legs out of the bed but was immediately reminded, no, standing wasn’t something he could do on his own, even with the prickle of adrenaline in his gut.

Someone was running down the hall towards his room.

Helene appeared in the doorway, blood on her shirt and every tooth showing in her smile.

“Hello again, Mr. Morgan.”

Whatever charm Ofelia Aguilar had been working when they arrived had faded—barefoot, skirt stained and ragged at the edges, hair a mess of snarls with honest to god twigs sticking out of it. Thick ring of scar around her neck, a longer freshly healed mark down one side of her nose.

She made a show of dropping the pistol in her hand before jumping onto the bed and slinking along his legs to straddle his hips. Arthur’s heart jangled around his throat. Each rapid breath hit the Witch’s thighs where they had clamped around his torso.

“I must be rusty, if you could see through things so easily.”

“How—how the _hell_ —”

“Coincidence, this time, I swear. Area’s known for its ‘weird happenings’ and I needed a fresh start. I was _very pleased_ ,” she ground into him, his stomach, and how the hell did she know, because she had to be doing it on purpose, that she was pressed into the wound she had dug into him, and it _ached_ near as bad as when she’d first done it, “when I saw you riding into town all frail and injured. Convinced the lovely lady of the house I’d been working for her for a while, suggested she bring you here to rest. That wendigo _really_ fucked you, didn’t it?”

Arthur tried to shove her off. Made it about halfway before his arms were yanked behind him and secured to the headboard by rope that sprung from nowhere. The Witch pressed harder into his stomach and Arthur realized she’d forgone bloomers again.

“Do you even have a _shred_ of decency in you?”

The Witch chuckled. “I’m sorry cariño, does my womanhood bother you?”

“Ain’t so much a bother as it is _disgusting_ , you b—”

Her smile vanished and she slapped him. “How dare you.”

Arthur’s vision speckled black. “You’re the one rubbin’ it all over me!”

She slapped him again, this time on the other cheek. “What would your _father_ have to say about your manners, hm? Should we go ask him?”

The ropes yanked Arthur’s hands to his sides. Ofelia shuffled backwards, along his legs; Arthur glued his eyes to the ceiling as her skirt rucked up higher. More ropes bound along his torso, his legs, and he found himself upright in a dizzying rush. Stiff as a board and not really standing. He looked down and saw his feet a few inches above the floor.

“If you—”

Ofelia stood. She traipsed a slow circle around Arthur. He found his lips had been sealed together much as they had been the last time she had him.

“What, hurt your lovely host? I don’t care about them, I care about you, and _how you had me hanged_. Now, come.” She turned her finger in the air and Arthur shot from the room, upright, hovering.

He stopped in the middle of the sitting room. The crashes he’d heard earlier must be the splintered furniture. Arthur tried to shout around his sealed lips.

Ofelia sighed, rolled her eyes. “You’re so _boring_.” A flick of her hands sent Arthur slamming backwards onto the floor. Could still move his head, look around the room. Some kinda white circle painted around him. Hosea was out cold, face slack and chest rising steadily. John pinned to the wall by nothing, hollering around a gag. Charles on the other side of the room, crumpled in the corner under half a broken couch. No sign of Petey or Caroline or Joseph but Arthur thought he heard the babies crying somewhere in the house.

Ofelia knelt beside him, looked him over the same way he’d seen men look over working girls. She bit the corner of her bottom lip and for a moment appeared genuinely concerned.

“It’s no fun when you’re already _hurt_. Hmm. . . .” Ofelia perched on his thighs. Placed a hand on his injured hip. Pressed into it. Arthur winced, enough pain able to cut through any lingering morphine haze. Heat clawed at the abused joint, a tiny panther taken residence trying to mould his flesh back together from the inside.

Ofelia hummed as she moved over his other wounds. The same sensation of heated claws sunk into each. But once she had finished, Arthur felt almost normal again. Unhurt and brain no longer scrambled from drugs and oversleeping.

She sat back, firmly on Arthur’s knees.

“Well, what do you say when a witch magically heals all your wounds? Some of those were pretty nasty, that hip might’ve left you _crippled_ , and I fixed it better than it used to be.”

“The hell did you do to them?”

“Ay pendejo you don’t get it, do you. They’re not important. Worry about yourself for once. See this?” She gestured at the circle around him, the odd symbols held within the points of a star. “You should be _very_   worried about this, cabrón.”

Arthur swallowed. Met her warm brown eyes and was certain he saw a haze of blue drifting above them. Pale glowing lines curling around her face in minute spirals. Maybe a tall smoky shape behind her.

“Figure it’s as bad a way to die as any.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahaa sorry  
> 'm on tumblr http://barbarosabeee.tumblr.com and I reblog stuff if'n you're interested. Ask box is always open~


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